by M C Beaton
Despite the mess of the garden, the Duke found it quite a romantic setting with the full moon silvering the weeds and the faint strains of the orchestra filtering through the closed windows onto the sooty air.
He did not know that Betty had guessed what he was about and was quite prepared to accept him. It seemed to her that each time she saw him, her anger seemed to crumble and fade before the great attraction he held for her. She waited quietly and submissively with the moonlight glowing on her diamonds and shining in her powdered hair for him to take her in his arms and kiss all her doubts and indecisions away.
For once the Duke's pride prompted him to do the sensible thing. He did not wish to plead or argue or beg and so he took the simplest course. He drew her to him and silenced her token protest by covering her mouth with his own. Betty felt a heavy drugged sweetness pervading her body and all she wanted to do was be supported by those strong arms and kissed by those burning lips until she could not think any longer. Their bodies seemed fused together. He kissed her eyes, her nose and her lips again.
He could feel the years rolling away and he felt young and innocent and vulnerable, as if his many experienced affairs with many experienced women had not existed. He drew back slightly and looked down into her eyes, his own green ones glinting strangely in the moonlight. Now was the time to tell her he loved her, for now it would be easy and now it would be true.
"Oh, Fanny," groaned a masculine voice from the darkness of the tall weeds in a corner of the garden.
The Duke and Betty looked at each other in startled dismay. Then the voice of Sir Anthony Blake, hoarse and heavy with passion, sounded on the night air.
"Oh, Fanny, your breasts are like two meringues, your lips are like honey, your stomach is round and golden like a raised pie. I must have you again."
The Duke and Betty stood astounded before the sounds of this gastronomical Song of Solomon and then turned to each other in acute embarrassment. For Sir Anthony and Fanny were as unrestrained and greedy and noisy in their lovemaking as they were in their eating habits.
Romance fled and the Duke found he was standing in a weedy, dirty, rubble-strewn garden with loud sounds of lust on the point of consummation poisoning the night air. The sounds of someone else's lovemaking is about as romantic as someone else's dirty stockings.
"Let us go back in the house," he said, reaching for the French windows. But some enterprising servants had bolted them for the night.
"There must be a gate," he whispered.
"Aaah!" said Sir Anthony in deep satisfaction from the depths of his bed of weeds.
Betty followed the Duke, as anxious as he to escape before they were discovered by Sir Anthony or Fanny. It was as if they could hold onto some of the magic they had discovered if they avoided the confrontation.
Betty was reminded vividly of Hester and wondered if all romance ended in this noisy demonstration. They found a tall, rusty gate around a corner of the house. It had not been used in years and its bolts were rusted firmly in place.
Now, the Duke was normally a mature and sensible man, but he had never been in love before. So although the obvious course of action was to cough loudly and alert the noisy lovers that they had an audience, he found himself suggesting instead that they attempt to scale the garden wall.
They crept quietly through the ragged grass and over to a section of the garden as far away from Sir Anthony and Fanny as possible. The Duke mounted the wall first, the idea being that he would stand on the top and pull Betty up after him. Encumbered as he was by the whaleboned skirts of his coat and by his jeweled dress sword, he scaled the wall as silently and nimbly as a cat. Then he lay flat on his stomach on the top of the wall and stretched down his hands to pull Betty up. There was one steep step up on a mossy rock which jutted out from the old wall and then Betty would be able to mount high enough to catch hold of his hands.
Betty stretched up her hands and found her own held in a firm grasp. But her foot slipped on the mossy rock and with an alarmed scream she fell out and backward and fell on her back in the weeds, and the Duke, taken by surprise, catapulted over her head and landed face down in a bunch of stinging nettles.
As he struggled to his feet with his face and hands stinging like the very devil, Betty sat up in the grass and began to laugh. "Oh, we are such a pair of idiots," she gasped.
"Hey, what's to go?" came the surprised voice of Sir Anthony from the far corner of the garden.
"We are not idiots, madam," said the Duke in a towering rage. "You are."
The great bulk of Sir Anthony loomed up in the darkness of the garden. "Well, well," he exclaimed cheerfully. "Lovers all, heh?"
"I do not know or wish to know what you have been up to, Sir Anthony," said the Duke grimly. "I once more find myself in a ridiculous position and it is one time too many. You escorted Lady Betty to the ball, I believe? Good! Then I shall leave her in your capable hands."
He stalked off in the direction of the French windows and, having reached them, knocked so loudly on the glass with the hilt of his sword that it broke. An alarmed servant's face could be seen peering out and the doors were hurriedly opened.
Betty sat in the weeds and grass. She was dimly aware of Fanny who had joined Sir Anthony, asking her excited questions. Somehow, in her misery, she wondered how they could be so blatant, so lacking in shame, as to stand before her without so much as a blush between them.
"It was a joke, nothing more," said Betty in a tired voice. "Help me up, Fanny, and, Sir Anthony, I would be obliged if you would call Bella and take me home. I am weary."
And Sir Anthony, who had been about to make some hearty remark about couples romping in the moonlight, took one look at Betty's tight, white, anguished face and changed his mind. "I shall return as soon as I have escorted Lady Betty home, Miss Fanny," said Sir Anthony. Truth to tell, both were in that extremely self-centered state called love and were anxious to be rid of Lady Betty as quickly as possible.
When Betty and Bella were safely back in the drawing room of the Westerby town house, Bella looked anxiously at her young mistress's tired and sad face.
"It don't need to be a Duke," said Bella suddenly. "Earls and marquesses and thing o' that rank are just as good.'
Betty sighed. "Bella, I do not wish to discuss my unfortunate involvement with the Duke of Collingham again. It is finished . . . if something that was never even started could be said to be finished."
There was a timid scratching at the door and Miss Armitage entered. "Simon!" exclaimed Betty in alarm, for Miss Armitage, she knew, retired to bed early and nothing less than a serious happening would make her wait up.
"Lord Westerby is safe," said Miss Armitage in the small, colorless voice which matched her appearance. "I brought him home after the children's party and he is safe."
Betty turned pale. "Someone threatened him. There was an attempt on his life!"
"Not on his life."
"Oh, do sit down, Miss Armitage," cried Betty, "and tell us what happened."
Miss Armitage sat down primly on the edge of a chair and then spent several infuriating minutes arranging her skirts before she began. "There was a child at the party, young Harry Struthers, of the Hampshire Struthers, you know . . ."
"Oh, please get to the point, Miss Armitage."
"Well," said Miss Armitage slightly huffily, since she had rehearsed her story several times in the privacy of her room and was annoyed at having to precis it, "this Harry Struthers is the same age as Lord Westerby and by chance was dressed in yellow satin as was Simon. His tutor collected him somewhat earlier than the other children and they were standing on the step waiting for the carriage to be brought round when two ruffians hit the tutor with a cudgel and knocked him unconscious. Then they dragged little Harry into a carriage and drove off. One of the Entwhistle servants saw the whole thing. Well, the authorities were called, the Watch was called, the magistrates and the Bow Street Horse Patrol and the military. Mr. and Mrs. Struthers arrived and looked as
if they might die from worry. The Entwhistle servants had tried to pursue the carriage, but by the time they had got their wits together, there was no sign of the carriage which had taken poor little Harry away.
"A bare hour after the child was abducted, he returned! Yes, on foot, and none the worse for his experience, although he had been crying sore. It took a long time to get the story from him, but at last he told us that they had driven and driven toward the City and through the City and all the while they were sneering at him and saying, "Stop your blubbering, my lord." And he kept saying he wasn't a lord and his name was Harry Struthers and at last he showed them his gold watch that his father had given him with his name engraved on it. One of the men became so angry, Harry thought he was going to kill him. 'Ain't your name Westerby, then?' the man said, and Harry said that Simon was still at the party, whereupon these ruffians simply opened the carriage door and tossed the poor little lad out into the street. He had some money on him, enough to take a hack most of the way back. But you see, it was Lord Westerby they wanted. Mrs. Struthers said it was probably some gang who had hoped to abduct Lord Westerby because he is rich, and hold him for ransom."
And Miss Armitage finished the longest speech she had ever made in her life, quite out of breath.
Betty sat in silence. Then she said, "As soon as a tutor for Simon is hired, we will leave for Eppington Chase." And as she said those words, a little of the pain left Betty's heart. What man, what love, could compete with Eppington Chase? It was all her love, all her passion—every stick and stone in the place. "Simon is to be closely guarded night and day," she went on. "Tell Anderson that two of the footmen are to be moved to that duty immediately."
But as Betty finally fell into bed, her last waking thought was for her sister. Where on earth was Hester? What was she doing? Above all . . . was she still alive?
Three months later, when Betty was back at her beloved Chase and Simon was delighting in the tuition of his charming Irish tutor and the Duke of Collingham was making a second Grand Tour of the continent, half a world away Captain Jimmy Dunbray sat outside his tent below the slopes of Quebec and longed for Hester.
She had asked him not to write, made him promise not to write, saying it would only make things harder. But oh! how he missed her, each day more than the last. His high military collar hurt his neck and his pipe-clayed breeches were stiff and uncomfortable. "When I marry Hester," he thought dreamily, "I will wear silk from the skin out. Nothing but silk."
The leaves were blazing in their autumn glory and lazy wisps of smoke rose from the campfires into the clear air.
"Of course, Hester might have forgotten me. Might be married to someone else." The thought was so agonizing that tears came to his eyes. Suddenly, there was a ragged cheer from somewhere down at the end of the row of tents. Then the cheering grew louder. Then he saw Hester through his tears.
He smiled because he knew it must be a dream. He blinked the tears from his eyes and looked again. And then he slowly rose to his feet.
Lady Hester Lovelace was swinging down between the tents. She wore a frivolous military-type coat of green and gold with gold epaulettes over a green dress. Her wild gypsy hair floated out from under a saucy green and gold cocked hat. Her gun was slung over her shoulder and in her other hand she carried a brace of rabbit.
Her large eyes were flashing in the bold way he remembered as they roved over the cheering men. They were cheering Hester simply because she looked so wild and glorious and every inch a woman.
Then Hester saw Captain Jimmy and stopped short. One by one the cheers died away until there was a great silence broken only by the crackle of wood from the fires and the harsh screech of a jay.
"Hester," said Jimmy, the tears streaming down his face. "You've come home."
The tears were now running freely down Hester's face as well and with a pathetic little gesture she held out the rabbits. "I-I've brought home the dinner, Jimmy," she said.
And then they were both in each other's arms, kissing and sobbing and crying and laughing. At last the Captain swung her around to face the men. "You're all invited to the wedding," he shouted, and amid delighted roars and cheers, he drew Hester inside his tent.
Chapter Seven
The November gales howled about Eppington Chase and the sky was steel-gray. Despite the weather, Betty felt happier than she had ever been before . . . or so she told herself. A letter had arrived from Hester to say that she had been married by the army chaplain and was now the wife of Captain Jimmy and that they would be returning to England as soon as the Captain could get leave. Hester seemed to be enjoying the role of army wife immensely. A tutor had been found for Simon. His name was Peter de Brus, an impoverished member of the Irish aristocracy, although the de Brus name dated back to his Norman ancestors. He had all the charm of the Irish race, a melodious voice, curly black hair, and bright blue eyes set in a fringe of black lashes.
Betty had held a small dinner party for members of the local county and finding herself a man short had asked Mr. de Brus to fill the gap. Peter de Brus had been a great success, charming the guests with the same ease as he had charmed Betty and Simon, and since then Betty had treated him as a member of the family.
The only person immune to Mr. de Brus' charm was Bella, who warned her young mistress that no good would come of encouraging a tutor to step out of his place.
But Betty's beloved Simon seemed to adore his tutor and so Betty turned a deaf ear to Bella's complaints. Betty enjoyed the tutor's easygoing company and prided herself on the fact that there were now whole days at a stretch when she did not think of the Duke of Collingham.
From the social columns of the newspapers, she knew he was back in residence in London and wondered sometimes if he ever thought of her.
Fanny Bentley had come to stay on a visit. Her sister, Frederica, was engaged to be married to Lord Chuffield, a young man possessed of a large fortune, and Mrs. Bentley was evidently quite wild with delight.
She had not been so delighted, however, to have ignored the rumors circulating London about her daughter and Sir Anthony. For one whole month, Fanny had been locked in her room after a severe thrashing with the birch rod. Mrs. Bentley was frightened lest Fanny's disgraceful behavior should ruin Frederica's chances of getting Lord Chuffield to the altar. At last, Fanny had begged to be allowed to go to Eppington Chase, promising to report everything that happened there and hoping that her mother's obsession for the Westerbys would make her take the bait. Mrs. Bentley was glad to have the disgraceful Fanny sent out of London and Fanny would have been quite happy to stay at the dower house on her own, but Betty had pressed her to stay at the Chase.
Betty had been shocked by Fanny's appearance. Fanny's sallow complexion seemed yellower than ever now that she no longer bothered to use paint. Her figure was no longer slim, but gaunt, Betty decided, and her hair and eyes were dull.
At last Betty plucked up courage to ask after Sir Anthony. "He does not know what has happened to me," said Fanny miserably. "I promised Mother I would not write to him or communicate with him in any way and, if he were not married, I would cheerfully disobey her. But he is . . . and . . . and that is that. Philadelphia hardly goes anywhere with him now. 'Tis said she takes so much landenum that she's barely awake above two hours a day. Sometimes, you know, I find myself wishing she would take too much. . . ."
"Shhhh," said Betty. "You must not say these things. I know. I shall do something to cheer you up. I shall give a large ball and you may order the prettiest dress from London. And you can help me plan it and make up a list of guests."
"Please invite Sir Anthony," said Fanny. "Please."
"Well, I will," said Betty doubtfully. "But you know we are near Philadelphia's parents, so it's more than likely that she will come and surely that would be a heartbreak for you . . ."
"Anything," said Fanny fiercely. "Anything so long as I see him again. What can be more torture than this?"
"Oh, Fanny, dear Fanny, only give it ti
me. Time heals all things. Seeing him will be like opening a wound. Oh, very well, don't look at me so."
"If time heals all," pointed out Fanny, "then you will surely not be asking Colling-ham."
"I was never in love with the Duke," said Betty. "Our situations are totally different." She gave a light laugh. "In fact, I think I am forming a most unsuitable tendre for Simon's tutor."
"He is very charming," said Fanny, "but when you think of de Brus beside Colling-ham, well, de Brus somehow does not match up.
"What can you mean!"
"Well, Collingham is much more handsome because he has more depth. De Brus is always so perfect, always says the right thing, never loses his temper . . . well, sometimes I have an uncomfortable feeling that he is too good to be true."
"The difference between Collingham and de Brus," said Betty tartly, "is that Colling-ham is a powerful Duke and de Brus is, after all, a kind of servant and is by nature of his profession and lack of funds obliged to be always at his best."
"Odso!" said Fanny, but she did not sound convinced.
"Nonetheless," said Betty, twiddlng a quill pen between her fingers and not looking at Fanny, "I shall ask the Duke. It is only a courtesy in return for his help in trying to get me to Hester's ship before it sailed. He probably will not come, anyway."
But the girls looked at each other and then looked away. It had suddenly dawned on Betty that she might see the Duke again and she was overcome with a wave of anxiety and nervousness. She also cursed herself for being so weak. He was proud and pompous and did not love her, had never loved her. She, Betty, was badly in need of some pride of her own. She had, she now realized, been carrying on a sort of light flirtation with de Brus. But he did not take it seriously—or so she convinced herself.
Fanny, too, was excited and miserable at the same time at the thought of seeing Sir Anthony. She ran over to the looking glass above the fireplace and stared at her wan complexion and thin face in dismay. She had not even thought of food these past months. But in love or no, Fanny was not quite so self-centered as she had been before and she was suddenly struck with deep concern for Betty. For Fanny, in love, knew that despite her protestations Betty was in love with the Duke.
