Lissa

by Mira Stables

  The Marquis’s brows twitched to attention but there was no hint in the careless voice of the shock that he had just received. So he had been right to be suspicious of Stapleford’s tarrying.

  “Whence had you this?” he riposted smoothly enough.

  “Oh! I ran across old Wetherley at Boodle’s one day last week. Smug as bedamned over his girl’s prospects. Phyllis, is it? No. Phoebe. Seems the second Sternport boy has asked permission to pay his addresses. Shouldn’t think much of the match myself—bad blood on the distaff side—but Wetherley was quite set up with it. It was he who was telling me about young Jervase. Says he’s the talk of the neighbourhood. Not like you to run sly, Wrelf, though I rather gathered there was something in the wind at Christmas. So he fancied the red-head after all?”

  The Marquis had some difficulty in fobbing off his friend’s persistence while at the same time eliciting such further information as he could gather. He was thankful when the superior attractions of whist finally persuaded Hammond to make up another table. What the devil was Stapleford about this time? He was much of a mind to go down and see for himself. A morning call on Mrs. Wetherley, now established in Hill Street, only served to increase his anxieties. Even her elation over Phoebe’s success and her preoccupation with plans for an elaborate dinner party to be given in honour of the betrothed pair did not prevent her from launching herself on a regular Jeremiad about Stapleford. It seemed doubtful which she condemned the more—his earlier close seclusion or his later absorption in the unknown Miss Wayburn, but it soon became abundantly clear that there was some mystery about this young lady which his hostess was doing her best to sniff out. Since he knew nothing, her efforts were vain. The Viscount might have smiled to see how the close-lipped reticence with which her hints were rebuffed only served to convince the lady that there was good foundation for the story. She was pleased to believe that her own percipience had detected Miss Wayburn’s unusual quality and quite thankful that she had never openly snubbed the girl. She ventured a conciliatory remark on Lady Mary’s good fortune in securing so delightful a companion to share her days, but the Marquis brushed this aside, being in haste, he explained, to take his leave. He was bound for Stapleford himself, he informed her, and had only called to enquire if she had any errands with which she would like to charge him—a subterfuge which did nothing to diminish the lady’s indignation when she realised that his call had lasted a scant ten minutes. The Marquis, hard put to it to dissemble his mingled wrath and anxiety, wasted no regrets on his social misdemeanours.

  Fortunately his temper had time to cool before he reached Stapleford and he decided that there was nothing to be gained by hurling the full force of his wrath against his grandson before he had ascertained the facts. The warmth of the welcome he received still further soothed his irascibility. The boy looked amazingly well and seemed genuinely delighted to see him. Rumour was ever a lying jade. He would wait and see.

  But any doubts he might have entertained about the state of his grandson’s feelings were settled by one glance at the boy’s face when the Comtesse de Valmeuse brought the two girls down to the drawing-room before dinner. The Viscount’s orders to “put on your prettiest frocks” had been faithfully obeyed and the two presented a charming picture, Mary in crisp white muslin with a rose coloured sash and a matching fillet in her hair, Lissa in the green polonaise. But while Mary looked immature and schoolgirlish, some mischievous quirk of fate had prompted the Comtesse to dress Lissa’s red-gold mane in a new fashion. Twisted into a cunning knot on top of her head it gave her added height and poise, while the glowing ringlets that fell from the knot to frame her face and throat accentuated the purity of her skin. Excitement and apprehension had brought a delicate flush to her cheeks and her eyes were huge and dark beneath the slender arched brows that had so aroused Bertha William’s jealousy. Even the case-hardened Marquis caught his breath at the impact of that radiant vital charm, while Jervase momentarily forgot everything but the adoration that was writ plain on his face for all the world to read.

  But Lissa, for once, was not looking at him. Her eyes had sought the Marquis, the fierce unpredictable tyrant of her imagining, whose visit seemed to presage some hidden threat to her present happiness.

  That one penetrating glance had told the Marquis all that he wished to know—and a good deal that he did not—but the habit of a lifetime enabled him to remain outwardly imperturbable as he bowed, very much in the grand manner over the Comtesse’s hand, murmuring a graceful phrase or two in appreciation of her kindness to his grand-daughter. Mary herself received a not unkindly pinch on the cheek that she had offered for his kiss and a pleasant comment on her improved appearance. Lissa was greeted courteously, the intent dark eyes so like Jervase’s measuring her youth and inexperience, the keen mind already at work devising the best method of dealing with a potentially explosive situation.

  By the time that dinner was done he had reached certain definite conclusions. Young as she was, the girl was already a force to be reckoned with. Apart from her innocent allure she was intelligent and quick witted, while her devotion to Stapleford Place and its historic past—and here he credited her with complete sincerity—made a strong appeal to his own sympathies, as, no doubt, it had done to Jervase’s. Moreover, despite the cynicism born of long and intimate acquaintance with the frail sex, he judged that the affair, though clandestine, was wholly honourable. Setting aside the fact that Jervase would never have permitted his light o’ love to enter his sister’s orbit, the boy was oddly strait-laced. Far more likely that his besotted fancy would incline him towards marriage. And, to be fair, one must admire his judgement. If the girl’s breeding was all right—and she bore every appearance of good blood—what matter if her fortune was negligible? If the boy’s heart was really set on the chit, Wrelf could well stand the nonsense. So why, in heaven’s name, had he withheld his confidence?

  There could be only one answer. He had known that his grandfather would refuse his consent. While the Marquis listened with every appearance of grave attention to the Comtesse’s disquisition on the proper preservation of family portraits, he strove to recall just what the boy had told him. A naval family, of limited means. Nothing there to be ashamed of. But the name, Wayburn, failed to strike any note of recognition—indeed it had a plaguey commonplace ring to it. And Jessamyn Wetherley had certainly been hinting at a scandal of some kind. Well—he would hold his hand for the present. It was no part of his plan to provoke a direct confrontation with the boy. He could be cursed obstinate when once his mind was set. Diplomacy rather than brute force would be the most effective weapon. But come what might, even if he were driven to using the threat of disinheritance which must be his last resource, no breath of scandal should be permitted to sully the fair name of Wrelf.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Marquis pleaded the stress of his journeying as sufficient excuse for retiring early. Jervase raised an incredulous eyebrow. His grandfather might be nearing man’s allotted span but never before, even after the most gruelling day in the hunting field, had he been known to admit to so shameful a weakness as fatigue. However he held his peace and dutifully escorted the old man to the state bedchamber which had been hurriedly prepared for his reception.

  The unnatural calm still brooded over Stapleford Place next day. The girls were safely secluded in the schoolroom wing with Madame, and the Marquis, having commanded his grandson’s attendance, spent the forenoon in visiting some of the farms that comprised the estate and, in general, commending the novice’s efforts at good stewardship. He then announced his intention of looking up one or two old cronies who had not betaken themselves to Town. From this expedition, which had included a call on the unsuspecting Mr. Hetherston, he returned with a grim set to his mouth and a cold fury in his eye that plainly warned of storms to come.

  Yet still he held his hand. He had intimated that he did not desire the presence of the girls at dinner so that only the three of them sat down to the meal. The Comtess
e seemed unusually withdrawn. In marked contrast to the pleasant informality of the previous evening, conversation was on a very stilted plane. Jervase could not but admire the practised ease with which his elders maintained a gentle flow of meaningless vapidities when their minds were quite obviously preoccupied with other interests. There was no need for him to make more than a token contribution; which was just as well. He had a notion that he would need all his mental energies in the impending conflict with his grandsire. For there could be no more putting off. If the Marquis did not broach the subject of Lissa Wayburn, then he himself must do so. And he would be thankful to be done with pretence. He was still deeply ashamed of the way in which he had misled his grandfather about Lissa’s history and it was no excuse that at that time he had not realised how much she had come to mean to him. Now that his mind was irrevocably set on marriage he owed his grandfather the whole truth at the earliest possible moment.

  It was disconcerting, though, when the Comtesse had made her excuses, to find himself quite unable to assess the Marquis’s attitude. There had been stern reproof in the brief sentences that had invited explanation of the deception that he had practised. But when the fault had been admitted and due contrition expressed, the older man had listened quietly enough to the long and complicated story which was laid before him. Halting and diffident at first, its delivery had gained pace and confidence until it reached the point at which the Marquis’s own unexpected arrival had barely prevented a declaration of love.

  Quietly he had listened, which was sadly out of character. Only once had he shown any visible emotion, and that was to smooth away an irrepressible grin at the hints of mythical grandeur which had so set Mrs. Wetherley by the ears. That certainly tickled his wry sense of humour. But beneath this lighter mood a sense of deep alarm was growing within him. He had been considerably disturbed when he heard Hetherston’s account of the boy’s dealings with his waif. Now, listening to the tale from his own lips, this anxiety increased. This was no sickly greenhead’s fancy as in the case of Millicent Girling. The protective tenderness, the quiet statement of his intentions, even the absence of fulsome praise of his darling, were all of a man. In the silence that ensued when his grandson had made an end the Marquis suddenly, unwilling, recalled a fleeting memory some fifty years old. His own first love had been given to a girl scarcely more suitable than the boy’s Lissa. There had never been any question of marriage, for his bride had already been selected for him by his parents, the betrothal announced. The girl he had so foolishly loved had been hastily whisked away out of his ken and married off to a country squire of comfortable means. He never knew just how it had been managed but he always suspected that his father had provided a dowry that had made the girl’s charms quite irresistible. He had lost track of her after her marriage—and his own marriage had been quite satisfactory. His wife had been perfectly docile and having supplied him with an heir had been complaisant enough when he chose to follow his roving fancy wherever it led. Not that he had been a great rake; too fastidious for that, with little liking for bought caresses. But naturally over the years there had been a number of pleasant little affairs. He felt that he had arrived at a very just appreciation of the proper place for women in a man’s life. So why, at this damnably inconvenient moment, should he suddenly recall a rapture once briefly glimpsed, and feel an uncomfortable degree of pity for the grandson who must suffer a like disappointment?

  His voice was gruff with sympathy as he said slowly, “It won’t do, lad. You must know yourself it won’t do.”

  No answer. Only the boy’s lips folded together in a stern line and the dark head lifted a trifle.

  Carefully he went on, “Even if we could make your absurd tale of royal blood stick—and you must know the impossibility of that—it would make no difference. I say nothing against the girl. To all appearances she’s a thoroughbred. But appearances aren’t everything. Nor would I cavil at her lack of fortune.” He noted thankfully that Jervase was listening attentively, his pose a little relaxed. This was the right tack, the safe tack. “But there’s more to it than that. I said just now that appearances aren’t everything. Sooner or later breeding always tells. Some day you will be Wrelf. Do you want to run the risk that your son will be a moonling like Sternport? Or maybe a cripple or some perverted maniac?”

  His sympathetic attitude had served him well. It had inhibited open defiance and gained him time for manoeuvre. To have provoked the boy to desperate action at this stage would have been fatal. He went on, slowly, thoughtfully, “Someone, somewhere, knows the girl’s story. If we can discover the truth—if you can prove to me that she is fit to mate with you, then I will not refuse my consent. Otherwise—” He shrugged. “You are of age. You will go the way of your choosing. But it will be a sorry business.”

  The quiet words were more forceful than a blow. They foreshadowed the loss of his birthright. And while a man could always make his way, while, indeed, he would still have a comfortable competence to call his own, yet for Lissa he wanted everything that rank and wealth could offer. Eagerly he snatched at the tenuous hope of a happy solution.

  “Her foster mother knows nothing. As I grew to know Lissa, so my curiosity grew to know her story, but the woman had nothing to tell except the name of the lawyer who brought the child to her. Whitehead. He must know something and may be persuaded to reveal it. That’s the obvious starting point, isn’t it, Sir?”

  It was the Marquis’s turn to feel all the discomfort of a guilt that stemmed from treachery to one who loved and trusted him. It must be in the highest degree improbable that the girl’s birth should be stainless. But by sending his grandson off on what could only be a fool’s errand he would gain a further breathing space. Time—that precious commodity—to attack from another angle. The memory of his own youthful folly had given him the notion of tackling the girl. If he could get rid of her while Jervase was away—buy her off, perhaps? There might even be some willing suitor who would take her off his hands if she were well enough dowered. She was enough to stir any man’s blood, and with money as well—

  He opened his campaign early the next day, as soon as Jervase had taken his leave, asking if the girls might be excused their studies for once, so that they could ride with him. He wished, he said, to see what progress his grand-daughter had made in the equestrian art under her brother’s tuition. The Comtesse eyed him thoughtfully as she gave pleasant assent to the suggestion. The girls went off to change, Lissa, who loved the horses and rode whenever opportunity offered, in high glee. Mary shivering with apprehension.

  Nevertheless she acquitted herself well enough to earn a word of commendation. At Lissa he shook his head. “Neck or nothing, that’s you, Miss, plenty of pluck but little sense, and no way for a young lady to ride,” and was startled when she only grinned in friendly fashion, obviously caring nothing for his opinion one way or the other. Reluctantly he admitted to himself that he was uncommonly taken with the chit. For one with so little experience she showed up damned well on a horse—light hands and a natural easy seat. On good terms with the beast she rode, too, and he not the easiest of mounts, a nappy young chestnut. Well matched, the pair of them, he conceded. What was more the girl seemed quite unmindful of her own attractions—made no attempt to play off her sex—behaved more like a lively schoolboy than a young woman.

  None of this, of course, made any difference to his determination to be rid of her as soon as possible. Indeed, the better he liked her the more dangerous did she seem. There was no time to be lost. He dismissed Mary to the schoolroom but put a detaining hand on Lissa’s wrist, saying that he would be glad of the favour of a short talk with her. It was high time, he felt, that they improved their acquaintance.

  There could be no question of refusing what was tantamount to a royal command. Quaking inwardly but with her head well up, Lissa preceded him into the library and accepted the chair that he indicated. My lord did not choose to be seated but prowled restlessly across to the windows, finding som
e awkwardness in initiating a difficult subject. But he had never been one to shirk his fences, though he felt a slight qualm as he turned towards the girl. She looked so small and defenceless, quite lost in the massive chair, and he seemed to tower over her. Involuntarily his voice softened a little as he said gravely, “There are one or two questions I would like to ask you, Miss Wayburn. I trust you will pardon any seeming presumption in one who is not only old enough to be your grandfather but who is also sincerely concerned for your welfare.”

  Lissa’s voice failed her at this ominous preamble. She stammered out something that might be taken for assent and essayed a smile. The Marquis hardened his heart and pressed on. Little by little he drew from her all the details of her story and as her tension relaxed under his matter-of-fact questioning she spoke quite simply and naturally of her plans for the future and of how Lord Stapleford had promised to use his interest to help her to a situation when she was ready.

  Throughout this frank recital the Marquis continued his restless prowling. She came to an end with a tiny shrug of resignation and raised her eyes to his, clearly inviting his judgement. He sighed deeply. It was a genuine sigh, for he was truly sorry for the little creature trapped in a web that was none of her weaving. And at the sound of the sigh and the sight of his sombre expression the faint gleam of hope left the appealing young face and her pretty colour faded. She made neither protest nor plea. Only her hands clenched together in her lap as she waited dumbly.

  “Don’t look so anxious, my dear,” said the Marquis gently. “We will see to it that something is arranged for you so that you may be comfortable even though your present plans must be changed. For I have to tell you that it really will not do for you to remain here. It was the rumour of your presence which brought me down from Town to see for myself, for I could not credit the scandal that is circulating about your relations with Lord Stapleford. Now, no need to get on your high ropes, child—” for she had risen and was fronting him with a steady dignity that belied her youth—“I can see for myself that it is all perfectly innocent, and all the fault of that caper-witted grandson of mine. I gave him a rare trimming, I can tell you, for he is quite old enough to have taken more thought for how the matter would appear to the outside world. The thing is, I am sure you would not wish to harm his prospects despite his foolish behaviour, so kind as you say he has been to you. And that, my dear, so long as you remain under his roof, is just what you stand in danger of doing.”