Raven's Ransom

by Hayley Ann Solomon

  “True, though Raven will get the most out of the venture, I suspect.”

  “A king’s ransom, in fact.”

  Barrymore grinned. “Better than a Raven’s ransom!”

  Lord Rochester swallowed and allowed the light to filter into his glass, causing his spirits to sparkle, for a moment. Raven’s Ransom. That is what he might have when he married Primrose. He pushed the thought from his mind. It was unworthy of him, for his attraction, he knew, had little to do with Lord Raven’s ridiculous offer. He squinted at Barrymore, who looked more susceptible to such a prize. Would not a gambler by nature be drawn, inexorably, to such a tantalizing prospect? He liked Denver, the young Viscount Barrymore, but he could not set aside the suspicion.

  “Let us talk of the ransom for a moment. Half of London is doing it, why should not we?”

  “What shall we say?” A militant sparkle suddenly entered the viscount’s eye.

  “Shall we say that the Chartley sisters are worthy of such largesse?”

  “We can, but if your implications are as insulting as I infer, I would have to run you through with a sword.”

  “And why, pray?”

  “Because one of them is imminently to become my betrothed.”

  Lord Rochester felt as though he had been kicked in the pit of his stomach. He stood up and walked away from the table, for had he remained, the Huntingdale crystal would undoubtedly have splintered on his superb marble floor.

  “By Lord Raven’s honorable consent, I presume?”

  “What else?” Barrymore shrugged his shoulders in an engaging fashion, but the marquis was not in a humor to be mollified.

  “May I ask which one?”

  “Oh, the fairest diamond of them all. But come, let us not bandy lady’s names about. It is not my custom.”

  The fairest diamond. Then he did mean Primrose! Oh, why had he chosen to tease his mama and delay fixing her interest the very moment he knew he was smitten? Lord Raven, surely, would have chosen him above some trumped-up popinjay who took more account of his waistcoats then he did of his pockets. Barrymore was notoriously in debt, despite owning, as he claimed, some of the wealthiest mines on English shores. And look at him now! He had some strange, faraway smirk on his damnably handsome countenance that caused the usually mild Lord Rochester to want to throttle him. He kept his voice steady, however, and snapped his fingers to have the dishes removed. A lackey stepped forward at once, though it was not generally the marquis’s custom to treat him so.

  “I shall help you with your little project, Barrymore, if you grant me one small request.”

  “Anything.” The viscount felt a slight tingling about his pulses.

  If the marquis joined forces with him, the project would not fail. Everyone who knew anything knew that Lord Rochester had a passion for science. It was he who, for a wager, had put up the blunt for Matthew Murray’s steam locomotive that had so inspired Richard Trevithick. He had also, some time past, traveled to the colonies to see Oliver Evan’s noncondensing high-pressure engine. That same year, Oliver had built a steam-powered boat, the first of its kind. Lord Rochester had been one of the first to venture upon it. His rank and indisputable knowledge lent credence to any venture that might otherwise appear ramshackle. If Rochester endorsed it, one might be sure the whole of the bon Ton would. Now he was asking a small favor, and Denver felt certain that whatever it was, he could offer it.

  “Anything? Excellent. Then we are agreed. I shall write to my acquaintance, George Stephenson, at once. I shall also procure for you all the expert knowledge you might require for an enterprise of this scale. Though you may not use Hedley’s design, he shall be consulted on the project, for I believe his ideas are sound. In return, you shall drop your claim to Miss Chardey. I believe that with the revenue from this enterprise, you shall make the Raven’s Ransom look paltry. You don’t need it, Barrymore, drop it.”

  There was a moment’s silence as the viscount digested this stipulation. On the one hand, he saw Lily, smiling, intriguing, adorably merry, tantalizing in the extreme, and extraordinarily—quite extraordinarily beautiful. Truth to tell, in respect to her, he had almost forgotten the Raven’s Ransom, for Raven’s wager was a two-edged sword. He knew that by honorably claiming one, he could not expect the other. How dare the man! Without thinking that in some respects Lord Rochester was correct, Lily’s fortune had been a lure to him from the outset, he could only see the great insult that besmirched his very real feelings for the irrepressible Miss Lily. He kept his tone even as he looked Gareth, Lord Rochester, squarely in the eye. There was no vestige of the amicable accord that had been evident earlier.

  “You jest, surely.”

  “I have never been more serious. I wager you have not approached Miss Chartley for her hand.”

  “No, and I do not intend to.”

  Lord Rochester breathed easier and walked back to the table. He was just congratulating himself on his quick thinking, when Lord Barrymore continued.

  “I intend to abduct her, you see.” A smile lurked about his eyes. No doubt Lily would deem that very good sport!

  “You cur! I shall foil you, be warned.”

  “My private life is none of your business, Rochester!”

  “Maybe I shall make it so, if it impinges on mine.”

  The viscount stared at him in astonishment. “Jumping Jupiter, Gareth! You don’t mean to tell me you are after the Raven’s Ransom?”

  Gareth looked at him in distaste. “Hardly.” He wanted to grind Lord Barrymore’s handsome nose into the butter dish, but good manners and a lifetime of calm civility prevented such a hasty recourse.

  “Oh, then it matters not what I do with my Miss Chartley! At all events, she shall be the Viscountess Barrymore, soon, and quite above reproach! If it eases your conscience a little, I swear she shall not be despoiled before she is wed. It might interest you to know, my lord Rochester, that this is not simply a question of the ransom. My feelings, in this matter, are really very much engaged. Quite unaccountable, really, for a bachelor life has always seemed rather advantageous to one of my free spirit.”

  “I’m sure it has.” Civil as he was, my lord Rochester could not keep the irony from his tone as he surveyed his rival. What a damnable pity he actually liked the man, for otherwise he might surely be forgiven for booting him from his home. It would do his immaculate cream buckskins the world of good, no doubt, to have boot polish applied to the posterior seams.

  Barrymore grinned, ignoring entirely the sarcastic tone. “Well, I suspect it is a parson’s mousetrap for everyone at some stage, and at least the chit is pretty!”

  “The ‘chit,’ as you call her, is about to be sponsored by my mother! She shall doubtless be residing in my town house for the rest of the Season, so your plans, sir, shall have to be revised.”

  Barrymore frowned, then swiftly did as the urbane Lord Rochester had sarcastically suggested. He revised his plans. He would carry Lily off immediately. Tonight, if that was possible, for he had no desire to cause a scandal by breaching the lovely Lady Rochester’s private gardens. If she were Lily’s chaperone, he would be doomed to an endless spate of morning calls and perhaps, at best, a trip to Astley’s circus. He shuddered, a little, at the thought.

  “Very well, I shall do as you suggest. Now come off your high ropes, if you please. I had no notion you could be so stiff-rumped! Cry friends, shall we?”

  Gareth, accosted by appealing blue eyes and a light hearted lilt of the lips, melted a degree, reminding himself sternly to look to his laurels if he wanted to secure Primrose’s future not as the Viscountess Barrymore, but as the eminently more preferable—to himself, of course—Marchioness of Rochester. He hoped his suit would not be too irksome to Primrose, who thus far had appeared to display a gratifying degree of affection for himself. Still, there was no accounting for young ladies’ tastes, especially as the rascal he was now shaking hands with so civilly had the face of an angel, with deplorably romantic locks that glinted a little
with gold.

  For the first time, Gareth, Lord Rochester, questioned his dark, aristocratic countenance. There was a whisper of silver creeping into his luxurious, ebony hair that spoke of substance and maturity rather than Grecian gods endowed with eternal youth. He sighed a little, then handed Barrymore his stylish cane. Barrymore had the confounded impudence to wink as he took it, and Gareth found himself smiling, a little, in response.

  “I shall write to Trevithic and Stephenson today.”

  “Thank you. I am anxious to set the business in motion. This color is splendid, do you mind?”

  Gareth had no time to reply, for Denver had whisked one of his mother’s prime blooms from her vase and was inserting it, jauntily, into his buttonhole.

  Drat the man! He did have the advantage of a certain spontaneous style.

  Lord Rochester wondered which elements would appeal to Primrose more, then pushed the gloomy thought from his mind. The lady would undoubtedly decide. He hoped it was sooner, rather than later.

  Thirteen

  Three men laid careful plans. Two of them were wise enough to procure special licenses. The third, rather less precipitant, had armed himself merely with an enormous bunch of hothouse roses and a basket of oranges that were as sweet as they were unseasonable. A merchant in London’s seedier south side was even now congratulating himself on his enterprising venture, for the rather regal gentleman, dressed impeccably in doeskin breeches and a morning coat of enviable azure blue, had paid him handsomely for his trouble.

  He would know him again, that one, for his mount was a perfect Arabian of ice white, blessed with a proud stance and a high stepper to boot. It would not, he knew regret fully, be for sale. Matthew Bludgewick of Trentham Place, as he liked to rather royally describe his habitation, was a keen man for horseflesh. He also knew the gentry when he saw it. This man, though neither stiff-rumped nor too high in the instep, was undoubtedly that. With a small shrug, he watched him trot off across the cobbles, the delectable fruit adding a little color to the saddlebag.

  Lord Rochester hoped that the oranges would find favor. He felt a little foolish, arriving unannounced at Lord Raven’s residence with a bouquet that obscured his skillfully tied neckerchief and a basket of citrus that, however sweet, should certainly rather have been delivered. The butler would probably send him around to the servants’ entrance! The thought made him smile, a little, as he waited for his imperious knock upon the ornate brass door knocker to be answered.

  He did not have to wait long, for the under butler was becoming used to the ebb and tide of morning corners that seemed to perpetually be thronging to Lord Raven’s door. Each asked after him respectfully, but there could be no doubt, of course, that it was the Chartley sisters that was the attraction. Now, Lord Raven’s manservant raised his eyes a little at the sight confronting him. He stepped back, a tad, to receive the flowers, then stopped in surprise.

  “My lord Rochester!”

  “Ah, you know me. I was just about to produce a card.” The under butler, still new to his job, snickered at what he regarded as a very fine joke. Not know him indeed! The Marquis of Rochester, the very pink of the Ton!

  “May I see Lord Raven, if you please?”

  “Lord Raven?” The man was struck dumb. He was certain his lordship would be after Miss Primrose or Daisy or Miss Lily at the very least. And they were all in such high good looks today, tool It was a shame.

  “Very well, your lordship. I shall see how he does. He has been rather ill, you understand.”

  Lord Rochester’s eyes twinkled as he announced that he understood perfectly. Raven’s tempers were as famous as his disagreeable, ill-conceived ransom.

  The under butler bowed and made his suddenly stately way out of the room, just stopping, for a moment, in the kitchens, to announce what a “prodigious agreeable gentleman the marquis” was before handing his message over to a disapproving Richmond.

  “His lordship is not to be excited.”

  “What? What?” came bellowing from the bed. “Come in here, you rag-mannered fellow! Did you say there was someone to see me? Barrymore, eh?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ah, then it must be another proposal. Fetch me my walking stick, Richmond. This shall be lively.”

  “My lord, you have had far too much excitement for one day. The doctor . . .”

  “... is an old pie-faced, chicken-hearted, lily-livered woman! Get me my neckerchief, Richmond, before I throw this nasty concoction out the window. Are those flowers for me?”

  “Flowers?” The under butler, in his confusion at the spectacle, had forgotten about the precious red blooms.

  “I suppose so, my lord. The marquis did not say.”

  The earl’s eyes gleamed. “Marquis, eh? Ah, now we are talking! Fetch me my diamond pin, Richmond. And my snuff.”

  With a sharp look at his employer, who truth to tell, did look rather animated, despite his bony fingers and frail countenance, Richmond bowed and set about doing his bidding. The under butler, perceiving that this meant an affirmative reply for the visitor below stairs, also made his bow. He was waved away with an impatient hand, so it was not long before he was taking the steps two at a time and praying that the toffee-nosed butler would not catch him at it.

  “My lord!”

  “Yes?” The marquis turned from the portrait he was studying and smiled.

  “The earl will see you now.”

  “Ah, excellent.”

  “Mama, I am bringing home the loveliest creature. I am certain, with your kindly heart, that you shall love her always.”

  “Mais oui, chéri?” The Countess of Westenbury smiled prettily upon her only son. “But zees is exciting! I shall guess this sweet creaturrre!” She rolled her r’s with greater stress than normal, for she was excited.

  The viscount smiled. “You can try!”

  “It is zee ’orse?”

  “No, Mama! You have enough of those!” The countess pouted a little, but her eyes twinkled.

  “It is zee moonkey?”

  “Monkey? Nonsense, Mother! A monkey would be very trying. It would hang from your chandeliers and cause havoc with your silk drapes.”

  “It is not, zen, zee elephant?”

  Lord Armand Valmont laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh that womankind seemed to dote upon and his mother loved in particular.

  “No, I would not describe her as an elephant.”

  “But aha! It is a ’er, then? ’Ow very intriguing!”

  “Very.”

  “But, Armand, you would not bring one of zose opera dancers—what do you call zem? ’Igh kickers? To meet me?”

  “High steppers. And, Mama! How shocking!”

  “Yes?” She peeped at him with a smile.

  “Yes.” Armand was firm. Though he was very well acquainted with the ladybird set, he would certainly not entertain the notion of bringing one of them home. The idea was appalling.

  “I geeve up, ma cheri. What is zees fascinating creature?”

  “It is a girl, Mama. I am meant to carry her off into the sunset tonight.”

  “A girl? But, Armand, you are so young!”

  “Young? I am eight-and-twenty!”

  “Is she preety, zees girl?”

  “Oh, she is just like the little porcelain doll you brought from France.”

  “Foi! No girl can be so preety!”

  “Miss Chartley can. She is livelier than your doll, though. She sparkles as she talks, and oh! Her imagination! You will love her, Mama, for she lives in a dreamworld, just like you.”

  “Zat is very good, for I cannot abide girls who look at you so”—she pulled a rather toffee-nosed grimace—“when one talks of zee dragons and dungeons and peexie dust.”

  “I can assure you, my Daisy will be quite wide-eyed in fascination.”

  “Then breeng ’er to me!”

  “I shall, for I am meant to carry her off into the sunset tonight, and I’ll be damned if I will spend three uncomfortable nights in an
ill-sprung chaise to get to Gretna, when with the special license I procured today, we can be married charmingly from home!”

  “Armand, you are not worthy of such a one! A ’eroine yearns for a leetle discomfort”

  Armand chuckled.

  “True, but I shall tell her I am escaping the Bow Street Runners. That shall be discomfort enough. She thinks, you see, that I am a highwayman.”

  “A ’ighwayman? And the little one still wishes to marry you?”

  “Fervently, I hope!” The countess clapped her hands. “I theenk I love ’er already. Bring ’er ’ome by all means. But you, ma cher, you must stay away.”

  “Stay away?” Armand looked blank.

  “It would not be feeting. Until she is your bride, it would be a scandal if you stayed.”

  “But . . .”

  “Armand . . .” The countess’s expressive face looked suddenly stubbornly forbidding.

  “Oh, very well, Mama! Unless I have actually married her, I shall return to town upon the instant, though the horses will not thank me for it. It is pitch dark upon the roads, now that the moon is no more than a sliver of a crescent.”

  Lady Valmont appeared to have little sympathy for such a paltry matter. She waved it away, in fact, with an airy gesture that did justice to her long, elegant fingers.

  “Eet is good. So! If I love this . . . this . . . cornflower?”

  “Daisy.”

  “Daisy. You shall be married tomorrow. I weesh your father was not so far away!”

  “The earl? He is not as romantic as you, Mama. The King’s business must come first. He will be pleased, I think, at the prospect of an heir.”

  “Oh, Armand! He is not so cold as you think.”

  Lord Valmont smiled. “If he chose you, Mama, he must have fire somewhere beneath his icy reserve!”

  “Indeed! Ma foi! Just look how he challenged Raven when the man tried to ... to ...”

  “Mama, you are blushing! And Raven paid dearly for that kiss, for he lost his golden sword.”

  “True, but it was better than ’is life.”