by M C Beaton
Betty did not seem to be at all aware that she was a very attractive young miss in possession of a large fortune. There were so many men, Fanny thought, who would be glad to marry her. Of course, Collingham had set many hearts a-flutter with his handsome face and charming smile. But society had long ago come to the conclusion he was a hardened bachelor and if Betty could not ensnare him, who could?
"Shall I ask your mother and Frederica?" Betty's voice broke into Fanny's troubled thoughts.
"No," said Fanny in a low voice. "No. I do not think there is any reason to. The Westerbys owe Mother nothing. I have realized that for some time. Oh, Betty, let us be real friends. There is always this shadow of Mother's hate lying between us."
"Yes." Betty stared down at the desk. "She does hate us, doesn't she?" Betty looked up sharply. "Enough to murder Simon?"
Fanny looked more gaunt than ever. "Oh, no, I am sure she would not go as far as that."
"We will be real friends in any case," smiled Betty. "Now come and sit beside me and we will invite only the people we really like. Mr. Edsleigh is calling in an hour to talk about the estate, but that should give us enough time to get started." James Edsleigh, a farmer, had been made temporary steward after the death of the old Marquess by Betty's mother but had proved so efficient in the post of steward, managing the Westerby lands to which the Welbourne lands had been added, that Betty and Hester had never thought to replace him.
Betty pulled a clean sheet of parchment and carefully, in a round, still childish hand, penned the name of the Duke of Collingham. Oh, dear, thought Betty suddenly. I wonder if this is wise. He probably does not wish to be reminded of me.
No, the Duke of Collingham most definitely did not want to be reminded of Lady Betty Lovelace. By rigid mental discipline he felt he had managed to put her out of his mind. His friends in the coffee houses no longer teased him about "the fair Betty." He had traveled to Italy and had just returned tanned and fit and glad to be home under gray English skies and hear the sound of English voices, much as he had enjoyed everything Italian—art, music and food. This is the way life should be, he told himself—elegant, well-ordered and serene. And if a nagging little voice in his brain told him that his serenity sometimes carried the face of boredom, the rest of his mind denied it fiercely.
And now this.
He looked down at the crested invitation and decided not to go. To keep his mind off it, he started to read through the rest of the morning's post and came across a letter from Captain Jimmy Dunbray. The Captain was married to Hester and loving every minute of life. Jimmy Dunbray's love for Hester seemed to leap from the page. Adolphus was to give their love to Betty, the Captain wrote, and Adolphus, tenth Duke of Collingham, slowly put down Captain Jimmy's letter and picked up Betty's invitation again.
Of course, it would be just like that harum-scarum sister of hers not to have told Betty anything about the marriage and so it was surely his duty to go to this accursed ball. No, you don't, said his conscience. You can write to her.
At that moment his butler silently opened the door to the Duke's study. "Mr. Beauly has called, Your Grace. I have put him in the back drawing room, feeling sure you would be desirous of seeing him."
"Jon Beauly!" exclaimed His Grace. "Now, what brings him to Town?"
"He did not say, Your Grace."
"I shall join him immediately. Odd's Life, I thought nothing in the world would bring Jon to London."
Jon Beauly was an odd friend for the Marquess to have. He was not of the aristocracy, being one of the Duke's tenant farmers. He was moderately wealthy, having a genius for agriculture. He was twenty-five years old and had turned to the Duke for help when he had been left in sole charge of the farm, his parents having died of influenza. The Duke had, of course, helped. He was a good landlord and considered it only his duty. But Jon Beauly was of a new type of farmer who applied science to his farming and who had begun to follow the new revolutionary ideas in agriculture. At first amused, then intrigued, the Duke had supplied him with books and a tutor, and then had watched with amazement the Beauly lands quickly becoming the most prosperous in the county.
By that time, an odd friendship had sprung up between the Duke and the farmer. Jon Beauly had never before come to London, considering all towns sinks of iniquity and never went near one except on market days.
He was, the last time the Duke had seen him, busily engaged in some new system by which he could rotate his crops.
Farming still followed the medieval pattern in which a three-course rotation was widely followed: first a winter corn crop, wheat, oats or rye; then spring corn, oats, barley, peas or beans; and then the land was left fallow for a year, during which time animals could graze on whatever sort of vegetation sprang up. This system was not very productive since the animals had little food in the winter and so there had to be a lot of slaughtering and salting down in autumn when the grass gave out.
Jon Beauly was trying to work out a system whereby the fallows could be replaced by root crops such as turnips or potatoes.
He arose as the Duke entered and said casually, "Good morrow, Dolph," with an easy familiarity which would have shocked the ton. Jon Beauly was a thin, wiry young man with a fine pair of hazel eyes in a thin face of pale complexion which no amount of outdoors work seemed able to tan. He was of medium height with his thick brown hair worn powdered. His legs were very thin, a defect he cured by wearing wooden calves inside two pairs of stockings. His nose was rather long, giving his face a serious, studious air. He was finely dressed, not unusual these days where the wealthy farmers aped their betters, sometimes to perfection. Although he treated the Duke with easy familiarity in private and called him "Dolph," he treated him with formal courtesy in public and never used his first name.
"What brings you to town, Jon?" asked the Duke curiously. "There are certainly enough cattle in the streets to make you feel at home."
"I am looking for a wife," said Jon Beauly.
"Odso? Would you not be better employed searching for that article in the country?"
"I can find nothing at home to suit my fancy," said Jon Beauly seriously. "I do not wish a wife to help with the farm chores, I have girls enough to do that. I thought" —here he blushed—"that perhaps a more romantic attachment. Oh, someone pretty to look at when I come home in the evenings. I do not look to marry above my station in life. I am not looking for a fine lady, just someone winsome and pretty who might love me."
"A hard search," said the Duke dryly. "I would have thought you too practical a man to indulge in such nonsense. It would be better to marry a sensible girl of good farming stock who would bear you fine sons and, if necessary, why! you may find your pleasures elsewhere."
"Now, that's sad," said Jon Beauly thoughtfully. "Sometimes, I declare, I am sorry for you, Dolph."
"Well, I shall do my best to help. I am not a victim of the tender passions." Oh, no? sneered a little voice in his brain, and he could see the invitation from Betty clear in his mind. Perhaps the only way to banish that horrid, little, mocking voice would be to go after all and then, when he saw her, he could put his feelings to the test. Surely his more mature, disciplined and experienced mind could counteract any attractions of a girl barely out of the schoolroom.
"Have you had much to do with the gentler sex?" asked the Duke abruptly.
"Well, I . . ."
"No, not in that way. I mean, flirting and chatting and carrying fans and writing love letters and all that series of trifles?"
"No."
"I think you need a little training and I know just the place for you to start. You and I are going to a ball, Jon, at Eppington Chase in Surrey."
Mr. Beauly looked alarmed. He said awkwardly, "Look here, Dolph, I am aware of the great difference in our ranks, although we can be friends in private. This must be some very grand family."
"It is the home of the Westerbys. The ball is being given by Lady Betty Lovelace, a young girl. The late Marquess married her mother. Lady Betty i
s the daughter of a village blacksmith. So you see?"
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Beauly sadly. "I do see."
But the Duke did not.
Sir Anthony Blake strolled along the pavement toward his home. He stopped short in his tracks as he saw the all-too-familiar figure of Mrs. Campford hurrying away. He frowned. Mrs. Campford meant trouble. By some miracle, Philadelphia had not heard of his brief affair with Fanny Bentley. Now he was sure she just had.
Philadelphia, looking fairer, more beautiful and more unreadable than ever, was sitting in the morning room going through the post, her long fingers flicking over and rejecting most of the invitations. Philadelphia rarely went out in society.
She had evolved a theory that a great deal of sleep preserved the skin from blemishes and wrinkles and Philadelphia's whole life was devoted to preserving her beauty. She resorted to a great deal of landenum and slept quite often for twelve hours at a stretch.
She glanced up briefly as Sir Anthony entered and remarked in a colorless voice, "I have had the pleasure of a call from Mrs. Campford."
"I wonder you let the woman past the door," said Sir Anthony, beginning to edge away.
"Sit down," said Philadelphia, "and tell me all about Miss Fanny Bentley. It appears you have been having an affair with her, culminating in a noisy consummation among the weeds of the Martindales' garden."
"How did you . . . how did Mrs. Camp-ford . . ."
"One of the Martindale servants had a delicious time observing you from a window. He could not see much, but he heard a great deal."
"And you would believe servants' gossip rather than your own husband?"
"Mine own husband has said naught in his defense."
Sir Anthony looked across at her and felt the beginnings of a great anger. But he knew that he must at all costs protect Fanny's name.
Keeping tight rein on his anger, he rose to his feet and stood over his wife. "Listen, madam, and listen well. I was pleasuring a young woman in the Martindale garden, but it was one of the servant maids. I am no seducer and she was no virgin. I paid her for my pleasure, madam. You are at fault. You shrink and shudder from the marriage bed so I must break my celibacy elsewhere. Unless you immediately scotch this malicious story about Miss Bentley, then I shall have no alternative but to seek an annulment to this farce of a marriage."
"On what grounds?" asked Philadelphia.
"I shall say that our marriage has not been consummated and since we have no children, I will be believed."
Philadelphia looked at him thoughtfully, quite without rancor. This man, she reminded herself, had the fortune which supplied all the pretty gowns and jewels and scents and lotions with which she fed her narcissistic soul. She had never dreamed that Sir Anthony would leave her. She knew that for all his roistering, he was at heart a religious man and believed they had been married in the sight of God which Philadelphia, the vicar's daughter, considered a mere antique ritual.
Nonetheless, Sir Anthony made one desperate bid for freedom. "On the other hand, if you would agree to an annulment without bitterness, I would supply you with all the money you could wish."
Again Philadelphia simply looked at him while her busy mind worked. No, that arrangement would not do. She enjoyed the protection, the very status of a married woman. She gave a little sigh of resignation. She would have to woo her husband until he forgot the dangerous Miss Bentley, for Philadelphia had not believed his story of the servant maid in the slightest.
Her face was suddenly illuminated with a beautiful smile. "Tony, oh Tony," she murmured. "I am a bad wife. I am grateful, yes, grateful to that terrible Campford woman for bring us together again." She rang the bell beside her chair. "See, I shall order champagne and we shall drink a toast to our marriage and you shall love me, aye, as a woman should be loved."
Sir Anthony looked at her beautiful pleading face and all his anger melted as the old magic of his first love came back. How beautiful, how pure she was. He thought guiltily of Fanny and then thrust her from his mind.
Philadelphia sat on his lap and teased his hair and encouraged him to drink a great deal of champagne. "Lady Betty is giving a ball at Eppington Chase in a fortnight's time." She made a charming little moue, pursing up her mouth for him to kiss. "But we needn't go, need we? The winter is so cold. Perhaps we could go to Italy on a second honeymoon."
Dazzled with champagne and visions of hot sun and orange trees and a willing passionate wife in his arms, Sir Anthony held her close. "We will leave as soon as possible," he said, his voice now slightly slurred. "Come, my love, and let's to bed."
He sobered slightly, prepared for the usual rejection, but she wound her arms around his neck and whispered, "Carry me."
He picked her up in his arms and strode with her from the room. But as he rose to his feet, Philadelphia leaned over his shoulder and snatched up the bottle of champagne.
When they reached her bedchamber, Philadelphia gently put down the bottle on a table beside the bed and blushingly told her husband she would retire to her dressing room to remove her clothes. Left on his own, Sir Anthony pulled off all his clothes, sending them flying around the room and then climbed into bed to await his wife. It was only when his head touched the pillow that he realized he had drunk a little too much and the bed showed an alarming tendency to take on a life of its own and behave like a roundabout at Bartholomew Fair.
The door opened and Philadelphia entered. She was naked, her shining fair hair rippling down her back. Her body was slim, high-breasted, exquisite.
"Oh, my love." Sir Anthony struggled up in bed. Philadelphia was carrying two glasses in her hand.
"A final toast," she said. "I am so nervous."
"Anything your heart desires," said Sir Anthony hoarsely.
Philadelphia turned her slim back on him, slipping something out of the drawer in the beside table. She seemed to take a long time pouring the champagne. At last she turned, holding up two brimming glasses. "To us."
"To us," he echoed, draining his glass in one gulp.
She only sipped her own and then placed her glass on the table and took his from him and placed it beside her own glass.
She climbed into bed and he drew her to him, feeling the hardness of her small, firm breasts against the great mat of hair on his chest. And then . . . nothing.
Philadelphia waited, very still, very quiet, until he let out a low snore. Gently she disengaged herself from his embrace. Gently she slid from the bed and then turned and looked down at her sleeping husband.
She went into the dressing room and put on a wrapper and then carefully sat down at her dressing table and studied her face in the looking glass. Her beautiful eyes looked back at her, clear and innocent as a summer lake. Laudenum did so many things. He would think he did not remember their lovemaking since he had drunk so much and would not realize she had put a heavy dose of laudenum in his champagne. Ah, well. She leaned closer. Was that a little wrinkle, just there, below the left eye? As usual, Philadelphia forgot about everything else and became immersed in total concentration on her own face.
One day before the ball, Eppington Chase gleamed white under a lowering sky. Betty walked with Peter de Brus and Simon beside the ornamental lake and felt an overwhelming sense of pride.
Everything had been designed so that it would not look too new, from the mellow golden brick to the stately white pillared entrance of the central building. Full-grown trees had been planted, bushes which would flower in the spring, walks and waterfalls, rotundas and summer houses.
"You love your home," said Peter de Brus quietly. Betty turned glowing eyes up to his sympathetic blue ones. "Oh, so much," she said.
"Ah, I wish your eyes would hold such love for me," he said.
"Mr. de Brus. Were I not convinced you were funning, then I should be quite annoyed with you."
He smiled but did not reply. This was not the way he had hoped to make his fortune, thought Peter de Brus. But another greater fortune was about to fall into his hand. He lo
oked sideways at Lady Betty and at the color that came and went on her cheek.
He was well aware of his charm. His blood was as good as Lady Betty's—better, in fact, if the village stories were true. He smiled at the rope of pearls around her pretty neck, valued each one and counted the money. The gray clouds above parted and a shaft of sunlight struck across their path. A good omen!
As if to deny this happy thought, Bella came bustling along the path, her face already set in disapproving lines. She thought the tutor spent too much time dancing attendance on Lady Betty and not enough with his pupil. Simon, reflected Bella sourly, was as doting as his aunt.
In this she was wrong. Simon, Lord Westerby, although he enjoyed his lessons with his tutor, found he could not like him but could not quite think why. Simon was beginning to long to go to school and study with other boys.
Eppington Chase and all the lands surrounding it as far as his eye could see belonged to him. Peter de Brus kept reminding him of this fact many times. Was it because he detected a note of envy in the tutor's voice? His aunt had invited James and Lucy and their parents to the ball and he was looking forward to that.
He was also looking forward to seeing the marvelous Duke of Collingham again. Simon planned to ask the Duke to stay on after the ball without consulting his aunt. She became so cross when the Duke's name was mentioned. But Simon dreamed of going hunting and fishing with the Duke, sensing somehow that the Duke would at least lend a polite ear to his request. Mr. de Brus appeared to have no liking for the country and preferred the days when he could sit in the drawing room in front of a large fire, talking nonsense to Aunt Betty.
"It's Miss Fanny," Bella was saying. "She received a letter this morning and she's been crying ever since. I do feel you should go to her, my lady."
