by Mira Stables
The Viscount objected that he had already checked every possible vehicle which might conceivably have carried Lissa to either of these destinations.
“Yers, me lord. But maybe the old codger—begging yer pardon, Sir—picked ’er up by previous arrangement. Or if that’s not the way of it, by wot you wos a-saying of, you wos asking for a young lady wiv red ’air. But ’air can be dyed—or it can be ’id under a close bonnet.”
Remembering the sad tale of Bertha Williams, Lord Stapleford realised that there might be a good deal to be said for this idea, and raised no further objections.
“Nah, leavin’ aside the red ’air, will yer lordship favour me wiv a full description of the young party? Or better still—” his eyes ran appraisingly over the serried ranks of family portraits arrayed on the walls—“’save yer such a fing as a picsher of ’er?”
The Marquis shook his head regretfully. Jervase said suddenly, “Yes, Sir, there is. If I can but find it. Though I don’t know if it was ever completed, so it may not be of much use to us,” and took the stairs to the schoolroom in leaping strides.
He was a little diffident about searching among such of the Comtesse’s possessions as she had left there without first seeking her permission, but she was still not fully recovered from the effects of her fall and kept her bed, puzzling the doctor considerably by the state of dreamy lethargy into which she had fallen, for which he could find no apparent cause. Jervase decided that it was better not to disturb her if he could avoid it. The schoolroom looked unnaturally bare and tidy, but stacked in a corner were several portfolios holding sketches. Almost at once he found what he was seeking. What was more, the portrait had been finished, and with a loving attention to detail which must, he felt, prove invaluable. He hesitated no more. Delicate notions about the propriety of meddling with Madame’s belongings must yield to the over-riding need to find Lissa and he was sure that the Comtesse, if she were in full possession of her senses, would be the first to say so.
He carried the portrait downstairs to the hall and propped it up in a good light for Mr. Smithers’s inspection. That gentleman sucked his teeth appreciatively but knew better than to give utterance to audible comment. The Marquis drew out his glass and subjected the painting to a careful scrutiny. The pictured face laughed back at him from the shade of the plumed hat. Mr. Smithers took out a pocket-book and made an entry in painstaking script. “’Bout five foot three?” he asked.
“A little more,” said Jervase almost absently, mentally deciding that the portrait should find a temporary home in his own room.
“Well—it’ll save a mort o’ time if we bofe sets to work on it,” pronounced Mr. Smithers. “And I will say as ’ow you’ve get yer ’ead uncommon well screwed on, fer one o’ the nobs. If you’ll take Barf, I’ll take Chelt’n’am. You can work Barf from ’ere, see? Wot’s more, Barf’ll be easy fer a swell cove o’ your stamp. All as you needs to do is to find this ’ere chap that runs the Assembly Rooms. Master o’ Ceremonies they calls ’im,” he added helpfully. “Yer’ll have to grease ’im in the fist, tactful-like. The General is most bound to ’ave ’is name in the book. But if so be as ’e ain’t, then best try the inns and the libraries and apothecaries and such. But you’ll know, most as well as me. ’S’almost a shame you was born a lordship. You’d ’ave made a promising Runner, so you would.”
On this note of amity the two of them went off to the stables, Mr. Smithers to select a sturdy bay gelding to bear him on the first stage of his journey, Lord Stapleford to order the greys put to his curricle in half an hour’s time. He then returned to the house, intending to carry Lissa’s portrait up to his own sanctum and then to instruct his man to put up such gear as he would need for two or three nights. However straightforward the search of Bath might appear to Mr. Smithers, he could not see it being concluded within the day. In the hall he met his grandfather, frowning concentration writ plain upon his face and Lissa’s portrait tucked under his arm, moving purposefully in the direction of the library.
“Historic Houses of the Northern Counties,” he was muttering. “It might be in there.” Seeing Jervase he caught him by the shoulder, saying, “Come and help me search, lad. There’s something too odd about this to be just coincidence,” and marched into the library, setting up the portrait on the Pembroke table beside the hearth and wagging an imperative finger at it.
“I know that house. And what’s more, rigged out like that, I know that girl. Seen her somewhere before, I mean, or if not her, maybe it was her mother. Can’t say the likeness struck me until I saw this picture. Must be the clothes. But the devil’s in it, I can’t remember the name of the place. Never visited it in my life, that I’ll swear, otherwise I must have remembered. I daresay I’ve seen a picture of it. But it’s a real place—not just an artist’s fancy—and at the back of my mind I’ve a notion there’s some queer story connected with it. Something like one of these old family curses, but that’s not it. If only I can pin it down we may be well on the way to finding out all that we want to know without the aid of this Whitehead fellow. I’ll lay you any odds that his mysterious client is the owner of that house.”
Jervase could not help being infected by his grandfather’s enthusiasm but he felt it was more important to find the girl herself. A letter from Mr. Whitehead had regretted further delay in his enquiries. His carefully phrased appeal, stressing the advantages to a nameless waif of such a splendid match as was proposed for her, had so far remained unanswered. He would try again, but he was not very hopeful. Jervase felt that Lissa’s safety and comfort were more important than her possible pedigree. He pointed out that the Comtesse de Valmeuse, who had depicted it, would certainly be able to supply the name of the place as soon as she was fully recovered. It might well be a French château, which would account for the Marquis forgetting its name. Meanwhile, with his grandfather’s permission, he would be off on his more urgent errand. He strode out, leaving the Marquis to shake an obstinate head and stretch out a hand for the library steps. No Frenchman had built that house. It was English—as English as he was. If only he could catch again that elusive flash of recognition!
Chapter Seventeen
“You must see, my lord, that I cannot possibly tell you where she is,” said Miss Parminter firmly. “It would be a breach of trust and unforgivable. She is well, she is in good hands and she is usefully employed. I am sorry for it that you should have been in such anxiety for her, but she did leave a message assuring her Stapleford friends of her safety.”
“And I am more grateful for your care of her than I can easily say,” returned Jervase earnestly. “But I must see her. It is relief inexpressible to know that she is safe but I cannot let matters rest at that. My grandfather is already aware of my wish to make Lissa my wife, if she will so far honour me. Since you stand, at the moment, in place of Lissa’s natural guardians, it is only proper that you, too, should be informed of my intentions.”
To say that Miss Parminter’s composure was quite shattered by this announcement is an understatement. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes seemed like to pop out of her head and she fell, rather than seated herself, on the couch that was fortunately conveniently placed. But presently, the first shock assimilated, she sat up straight as was her wont.
“You are serious, my lord? Yes. Of course you are. One does not make jest of such matters. But will the Marquis consent?”
“He has not done so yet. But he has softened amazingly during the past weeks and I am in hopes that he will eventually reconcile himself to the idea.”
“But Lissa said—my Lord Wrelf himself informed her—that you were on the point of announcing your betrothal,” said Miss Parminter perplexedly.
Jervase’s mouth hardened to an inflexible line and then, as the humour of the situation suddenly struck him, relaxed to a grin of pure mischief. “When my grandfather made that statement it was wholly untrue,” he said coolly. “And since I cannot have the head of my family convicted of lying, I must obviously do my ut
most to turn it into truth as swiftly as I may. Please, Miss Parminter,” he coaxed.
But despite her amazement and delight at the sudden turn in Lissa’s fortunes, she refused to be persuaded. “I will write to her this very day,” she assured him mendaciously, “and I will tell her that I feel it is only right and fair that she should grant you an interview.” And I will buy her that muslin gown, she thought grimly, whether she is pleased or not. She is not going to receive his lordship in that old brown thing. Aloud she said politely, “Are you staying in Bath, my lord, or shall I send a message to Stapleford Place?”
“In Bath, at the Pelican in Walcot Street,” said his lordship. And seeing her glance of mild surprise that he should choose so modest a hostelry, added, “Neither my grandfather nor I have any cause to be proud of this affair. But it is not only for our own sakes that we wish to brush through it as quietly as possible.”
Miss Parminter nodded sympathetically. “Very well, my lord. I will do as I have promised and I wish you a happy outcome.”
With that he had to content himself. But he was too restless to remain quietly in the Pelican, whither he had repaired on leaving Gay Street. He was not in the mood for riding and the greys had done enough for one day. He spared a sympathetic thought for Mr. Smithers, no doubt still dutifully pounding Cheltenham-wards. Mr. Smithers had deserved well of him. The advice he had given had led the Viscount without a check to the house in Gay Street. He decided to add a substantial douceur to the fee that they had agreed.
Thankfully he put off his driving coat and buckskins. The Pelican might not lay claim to fashionable preeminence but it gave good service. Careful hands had unpacked his valise, someone had taken pains to press the creases from his coat—the olive green broadcloth that his man had evidently considered indispensable when visiting the Metropolis of the West—while a boy appeared immediately to help him off with his boots and to bring hot water for his ablutions. He stretched himself luxuriously, mind and body at ease for the first time in weeks, and wondered whimsically how many miles he had ridden and driven in pursuit of his elusive love. So they brought him safe to the haven he sought, he would not begrudge them.
Nevertheless this evening he would walk. He pulled on the buff coloured pantaloons, arranged a fresh neckcloth with swift precision and shrugged himself into the coat, settling its high, folded collar carefully and reflecting thankfully that modern fashions were infinitely more comfortable and sensible than the stiff brocades and velvets of his grandfather’s day. The fact that these were still de rigeur in Court circles seemed to him an added inducement to abjure Town life.
Out of doors the sun was still warm and the streets seemed stuffy. Instinctively he headed for the promise of coolness beside the river and sauntered casually over the Pulteney Bridge and into Laura Place. Eased of his heavy burden of anxiety he was in the mood to pay attention to his surroundings and noted with interest the way in which the city was growing. Great Pulteney Street was new to him, and he admired its spacious layout which permitted the light breeze to refresh the weary pedestrian. Almost before he was aware of it he was approaching Sydney Gardens and idle curiosity tempted him to go inside. Great plans were afoot to extend the entertainment offered in the gardens to include many of the attractions that Vauxhall and Ranelagh offered to Londoners. Some of the work was already completed, and though he was a little past the age of succumbing to the temptations of the labyrinth, he enjoyed listening to the gurgles of merriment and the squeals of mock fright emitted by a party of youngsters who were obviously thrilled to the core by its hazards.
They were nearing the exit for their voices were plainly audible. He heard a girlish voice implore, “Oh! Pray let us go round once more! I’m sure I have the secret of it now. We’ll be very quick.”
He did not catch the low toned answer, evidently a denial, for now a second voice joined in the argument, a childish pipe with a hint of tears not far away as it proclaimed indignantly, “It’s not my fault that I have to go to bed earlier than you! ’Tisn’t fair to say I spoil all your fun. ’Specially when it’s my birthday treat and my money that paid for us to come in!”
That was certainly a strong case, thought Jervase, amused, and listening with interest to hear how authority would deal with a delicate situation. At this point the leading members of the party emerged from the maze—a couple of schoolgirls in their early teens and so alike that they must surely be sisters if not twins. Jervase, still eavesdropping shamelessly, heard a new voice say gently, “Don’t cry, Susan. You mustn’t cry on your birthday, sweetheart, or you’ll cry all year.”
He sprang forward. The voice was familiar and dear. Had he not spent many pleasant hours in training its cadences? With a heart that, contrary to all the laws of anatomy, seemed to be beating in his throat and half choking him, he approached the entrance to the maze. The attendant looked up hopefully, scenting fresh custom, but Jervase was oblivious of everything but the slender brown-clad girl who was leading the still rather watery-eyed Susan by the hand. Her face was hidden from him as she stooped over the child but the old-fashioned bonnet could not disguise Lissa from her lover’s eyes. When she did not even glance in his direction, intent on comforting her small charge, he swept off his curly brimmed beaver, bowed and said softly, “Good evening, Miss Wayburn.”
The next moment the hat was cast aside and he had caught the long-sought fugitive in his arms, for at the sound of his voice she had lifted to his a face of such incredulous joy that there could be no doubt as to her feelings. That first hard kiss was pressed on lips innocent but warmly responsive. After which, regardless of the highly interested twins and the deeply shocked attendant, Lord Stapleford proceeded to assuage a hunger that had been six months a-growing within him. Not realising that the girl in his arms was half dazed by the sudden revelation of his desire and the fierce sweep of emotion that his caresses had aroused within her, aware only that she was pliant and submissive in his hold, he kissed the childish brow, the smooth eyelids, the fascinating spot ’twixt cheek and chin where sometimes a dimple quivered and so came again to her mouth. At which point a stern voice announced in his ear, “Sir, if you don’t leave off at once I’ll call the Watch. Right down indecent, it is. In broad daylight, too, and in front of those innocent childer!”
Instead of slinking away shamefaced at this reproof, the culprit only glanced up, still keeping one arm firmly round the girl’s shoulders as though he feared she might run away, smiled pleasantly and said—cool as you please, as the attendant later told his wife—“You must forgive me, my good fellow, but my betrothed and I have been long parted,” and stretched out an appealing hand. Since the hand chanced to contain a couple of guineas the guardian of the moral sanctity of the Sydney Gardens was appeased and the little party was permitted to withdraw in good order.
Lissa, recovering now from the first rapturous shock, withdrew herself gently but decidedly from the shelter of his lordship’s arm. “We must make haste,” she said. “Miss Meredith will be displeased if we are late. She said seven o’clock, you know, and it would be a pity if she were to forbid our picnic tomorrow.”
“Yes,” contributed the Viscount briskly. “Run on ahead, girls, and wait for us by the entrance. I want to speak privately with Miss Wayburn.”
The twins, already sufficiently female to be susceptible to masculine good looks, especially when allied to a delightful smile and the air of a fellow conspirator, ran off obediently. And if Susan might have preferred to linger she was given no opportunity to do so, her sisters each seizing a hand and bearing her off willy-nilly.
“And now, my little love,” said Lord Stapleford gently, “will you not tell me all about it? Why did you feel that you must run away? I have been seeking you everywhere—and my grandfather was in such straits that he called in Bow Street.”
“He called in the Bow Street Runners to find me?” exclaimed Lissa, incredulous and horrified. “But why? He wanted me to go away so that you could marry the girl of your choice w
ithout a scandal. So why should he trouble himself to find me again?”
“Perhaps because I convinced him that you are the lady of my choice,” suggested his lordship, “though he was also deeply concerned for your safety.”
But Lissa was herself again. “No, my lord,” she said bluntly. “I am no wife for you as well you do know. It’s of no use pretending I don’t love you after the way I let you kiss me—” and glorious colour flared under the delicate skin at the memory—“but that was because you took me unawares and it makes no difference. I can’t marry you.” And she hastened her steps to catch up with the children.
Jervase had half expected this rebuff and since it was prefaced by so frank an avowal of love was not unduly depressed by it. Indeed, he felt that he was in a fair way to attaining his heart’s desire. It was just a matter of coaxing and wooing—and what a pleasure that would be—and Lissa would eventually yield. Without undue conceit he could not help knowing that all her friends would add their persuasions to his. Even if he were disinherited—and in his present buoyant mood he felt quite hopeful of bringing his grandfather to give his consent—he might still be considered a good match for a penniless governess. Certainly Miss Parminter had seemed to be of that opinion.
Lissa held other views. Worldly advancement did not enter into them. Jervase was a Wyncaster—the heir of Wrelf—and as far removed from her humble workaday world as a visitor from Olympus. Lord Wrelf might have failed in his measures to dispose of her tidily but he had succeeded to admiration in convincing her that association with Lissa Wayburn, base-born waif, spelled ruin for his lordship. She would have none of him.
