by Regina Darcy
“Young lads always sulk when they realise that they aren’t going to inherit the title and must make some provisions for their future. Heiresses, I’m told, are a favourite option.
“Speaking of heiresses, what’s this I hear of your cousin’s bride-to-be running off?”
“You’ve heard that, all the way in Twickendale?” Summerby exclaimed with a frown. “Ivanhoe won’t be pleased. He’s sent servants all over the region to search for her but nothing has transpired to date. He’s even searching in Twickendale and you know how seldom he is there.”
“Why is he so set on her?” Michael asked idly. “I should think he can find another bride easily enough.”
“Oh, perhaps, but there’s that old tale.”
“What tale is that?”
Summersby shifted uneasily in his seat and began to peel the crust from the slice of bread on the plate in front of Michael. “Oh, my cousin was married years ago. She died. His wife, I mean. His first wife. Rumours spread, as they do. Some said he had murdered her.”
“Murdered? Surely, if he had murdered his wife, there would have been charges brought against him and a trial. Likely a hanging, too, if he were found guilty.”
“Yes, well, that’s just it. No charges were brought.”
“Then he’s innocent?”
“No one in the family has ever summoned the nerve to ask him. Ivanhoe isn’t what you would describe as a man abounding in bonhomie, you know. He’s rather reserved and inclined to be reclusive. That’s why we were all quite surprised—and pleased, of course—when his engagement to Lady Honora Westing was announced. She’s a charming girl.”
“Yes. I mean, that’s what I’ve heard, that she’s charming. I haven’t met her, of course,” Michael lied.
“I have, and she is. Ivanhoe seemed pleased. Not that one can ever be sure,” Summersby said gloomily. “He’s rather secretive. No, I don’t mean that. He gives none of his feelings away.”
“Does he have feelings for the girl?”
“I suppose he has,” Summersby said, sampling the bread and finding it to his liking. “He’s leaving no stone unturned in his effort to find her. The family is eager for her to be found as well.”
“So I should think.”
“Oh, for that reason, too; I’m sure they’re fretting. But it’s become a dreadful scandal. The Earl—he’s a rather crusty old gentleman—is said to be irate at his daughter and irate at the circumstances. They want her home before the scandal has erupted to the point that Lady Honora will never make a good marriage otherwise, should my cousin repudiate her.”
“Is anyone aware of why she left?”
“It’s got to be the old story. That infernal chatterbox, Lady Charlotte Tesley has been going about saying that she and her daughter spoke with Lady Honora the day before she ran off.”
“Lady Charlotte Tesley? I don’t believe I know her.”
“Consider yourself lucky. Although if she doesn’t soon stop chattering, you won’t have the chance to meet her because my cousin is likely to strangle her. He’s fed up with the nonsense… If it is nonsense.” Shrugging his shoulders Summersby continued, “Well, of course it’s nonsense. One doesn’t have murderers in the family. I say, this bread is very good.”
“It’s only bread,” Michael said, exasperated at his friend’s penchant for abandoning a narrative to appease his gastronomic interests. “Is it nonsense?”
He was not reassured by the troubled expression on Summersby’s face.
“Of course it is,” Summersby said. “It must be. One doesn’t have murderers in the family,” he repeated again. “That’s just not the done thing.”
But he did not sound quite convinced that his words were the truth.
SIX
Michael was faced with a conundrum. He needed to find out how the Earl and Countess of Winterhaven were faring in the face of a scandal that threatened their position in society, and yet he dared not reveal that he knew anything of the matter except what was common knowledge. He was not personally acquainted with the family—his acquaintance with their daughter must, of course, remain a secret—and there was no way in which he could fabricate one.
What he needed, Michael thought, was a brisk walk to clear his thinking. He arose early the next morning, dressed, and left the house at an hour when the city’s workers were already starting their day, while the masters and mistresses of the aristocracy remained in their beds. As he walked, he found himself passing Lady Penelope’s house.
He spotted a familiar figure walking out of the house, doing so quite brazenly.
“James!”
The man turned at the sound of his name. He looked to be a young man, a couple of years younger than the Marquess. He scowled when he saw his half-brother.
“I didn’t know that you were in London,” James said.
“Nor I you. Are you not aware that, when leaving an assignation, it’s very bad form to depart by the front door of the home of the lady with whom you have spent the night?”
James flushed angrily. “It’s no business of yours what I do. She’s done with you anyway!”
“Lady Penelope is a delightful pastime, but as is the case with other indulgences, she cloys with excess. Nonetheless, James, her husband tolerates her infidelity only so long as discretion rules it. By leaving from the front entrance, at an hour when every servant in Mayfair may see you, Lady Penelope’s reputation is jeopardised and that has an effect on Lord Henry’s reaction to it.”
“Listen to you,” James jeered. “You abandon a perfectly marvellous mistress for your business in the country as if you were any peasant rustic who must return to his cattle and his plough.”
Michael kept his head. It was true that he did not command a great presence in the beau monde; he would rather spend his time in the country than in the artifice of the city. But his reasons for doing so were not solely a matter of preference. An estate needed to be managed; its servants needed guidance and direction. Otherwise, the source of income was imperilled by neglect.
But it was useless to present such an argument to James, who would only feel more resentment that he was not the heir to the title or the lands.
“I sound a very dull fellow,” he replied agreeably. “I am sorry that I disappoint you. I only thought to speak so that you would not create a dilemma for Lady Penelope.”
“She prefers me to you,” James said brashly. “She has said as much.”
“And likely a good deal more,” Michael mused. “She is inclined to be . . . voracious . . . in her pronouncements. I pray you do not create a situation where you will be obliged to fight a duel over the matter. Lord Henry is not noted for his marksmanship, but that does not mean that he could not kill you should he opt to defend his honour from cuckoldry with pistols at dawn.”
James blanched.
“A duel?”
“It is the time-honoured way for dealing with circumstances such as these,” Michael reminded his younger half-brother.
“But—but duelling is outlawed!”
“So are murder and robbery and prostitution, but I have not heard that the cells at Newgate are suddenly devoid of occupants. Have a care, James. Despite what you may think, I should not like to lose a brother and gain a gravestone. Good day to you.”
He continued with his walk. Perhaps the young fool would mind what he said. Perhaps he would not. But he would remember that a duel was an ignominious end to what he regarded as the triumph of claiming his brother’s mistress for his own.
Lady Penelope was a trollop with a title. It did not signify. James could have her. Her husband could have her. Michael wanted nothing to do with her.
His heart had been claimed by the shuttered Lady Honora, hiding from a husband she did not wish to marry.
His dilemma remained.
How could he pursue his investigation of Lady Honora’s plight without giving away the fact that he knew where she was hiding? Michael continued walking.
Even though he could n
ot equate a stroll through the city with a brisk hike on the grounds of Dennington, he was not immune to the allure of London. It was a captivating city, vigorous and energetic, pulsating with a modern sense of destiny that allowed one to forget the pettiness of the ton, the folly of the Prince Regent, and the various scandals which preoccupied its illustrious citizens. London was changing. Great Britain was changing. Wellington’s victories in Europe were signalling to the continent that the island nation was flexing its muscle. What did the future hold, Michael pondered as he walked; what did its industry, science and commerce have in store for the nation and for the world?
“Dennington, as I live and breathe!”
A brougham pulled up beside him next to the sidewalk. The door opened and George Devon, the Earl of Gilberton gestured for Michael to join him.
Gilberton knew everything that was going on in London, from the most exclusive of court circles to the lowliest of London’s undesirables. It was rumoured that his knowledge came from resources denied to the ordinary man, but whatever the origin, Gilberton was likely to have heard something about the Lady Honora escapade.
“I’m on my way to dine,” Gilberton said. “Join me?”
It was both request and command; Gilberton frequently seemed to confuse the two. But Michael realised that a meal would not come amiss and he agreed with alacrity to Gilberton’s suggestion that they seek a tavern.
The advantage of the tavern over his club was that he was not likely to be enticed into a conversation he did not wish to pursue. The tavern was only beginning to fill with customers seeking their first meal of the day and Gilberton assured him that the Blue Deer served an excellent venison.
Michael had never been to the establishment and marvelled at its unusual mix of clientele.
Gilberton was amused.
“It has a rather raffish reputation,” he acknowledged. “It’s not a place to come to at night unless your purse is hidden and your dagger is not. However, I find the food to be worth the risk.”
Michael wondered if Gilberton came to the Blue Deer not only for the food but for the news that his informants would provide in an atmosphere such as this, where people kept to themselves and seemed averse to the garrulity which one generally encountered in an eating establishment.
“You are back in England, I see,” he said as the serving wench brought a bottle of claret and glasses which were, Michael was surprised to note, entirely clean.
Gilberton shrugged. “For the time being.”
“I am here briefly and I understand that the news of the city is all about a runaway debutante.”
Gilberton, of course, knew of it.
“The Earl of Winterhaven’s daughter. Yes, I understand that she and her cousin dined at her fiancé’s home and took shelter for the night due to the storm which made travel impossible. When morning came, Lady Honora was no longer on the premises and no one seems to know where she has gotten herself to.”
“What about the cousin? Surely she must know.”
“She says not, I hear. The Earl already pressed her for details. Apparently she is a widow of some independent means and she told Winterhaven that they had a most enjoyable lunch and pleasant company and went to bed early, due to the weather and the early darkness. The first she learned of Lady Honora’s disappearance was when she went into her room the following morning and noticed that the bed had not been slept in. The Duke, I’m told, was not at all pleased at the circumstances. But then, who would be? And he, more than most, has reason to avoid public scrutiny.”
“Why so?”
Gilberton stared. “You have not heard the tale of the death of his wife, from causes unknown?”
“I’ve heard something of the sort but I’ve paid little heed.”
“Then you are a most noble gentleman, eschewing the gossip of the ton. Or else you are a bore and not interested in the goings-on of the wayward lords and ladies of our class,” Gilberton said cynically. “London could talk of nothing else for months after. That was six years ago. He has since then become affianced to Lady Honora and the engagement announced, and the bride is now a runaway. He is searching high and low for her, but she seems to have disappeared.”
“A young woman of her standing cannot simply disappear.”
“So one would think,” Gilberton said as their meals arrived. “But it seems that she has. The Winterhavens want her to come back; Lady Hestia is frantic, and the Earl is furious. The scandal is brewing and if something doesn’t happen soon to pre-empt the tale, this runaway bride may be the event for which this season is famous.”
“The family has heard nothing from the girl?’
“Nothing. Lady Charlotte Tesley has been, I gather, in contact with the family. Apparently she and that tiresome daughter of hers were at the engagement ball and Lady Honora called upon them soon after. To what purpose, I’ve no idea, but Winterhaven is intent upon locating his daughter.”
“For what purpose?”
“To bring her back, I should think. What else?”
“I’ve no idea. She must have fled for a reason; I should think they would be eager to discern the reason.”
“My dear Dennington, they can hardly do that if the girl remains absent,” Gilberton pointed out with a languid air. “They’d best retrieve her quickly whilst the Duke still wants her for a wife.”
“Why should he not?”
“You are a country rustic,” Gilberton marvelled. “The longer she stays away, the more dubious her virtue. A woman reduced to depending upon herself has but one source of revenue, and that is her beauty.”
Michael thought of Lady Honora, safely hidden in a place where chastity and virtue were not only protected but necessary.
“So the Earl fears that his daughter will not return before she has sold herself to make her way in the world? I must say, that’s rather uncharitable.”
“Do you think so? I cannot blame him. Ivanhoe is making threats of some kind; I daresay that Winterhaven will have to increase the girl’s dowry in order to make sure Ivanhoe honours his engagement. It’s all a muddle and, on the whole, tedious. Silly girls. They marry as a matter of course. Why should this one take flight?”
Michael found that he had no response to that statement. The conversation turned to other topics.
Gilberton was, as Michael knew he would be, exceedingly up to date with the goings-on of the government, the military campaign on the Continent and in America and assorted other matters concerning people of their mutual acquaintance.
As they were finishing their meal, Gilberton said, “Dennington is in Twickendale, is it not?”
“Yes. To the south of the Duke of Ivanhoe’s estate. He’s rarely there, although I have heard that he is searching for his runaway bride there.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the same.”
The Earl of Gilberton’s brougham returned them to London, Michael asked to be let off at his home and the Earl’s driver complied. The two gentlemen bid farewell and Michael left the brougham. As he went inside his home and went through the mail that had arrived, it suddenly occurred to him that far from being an impulsive invitation to dine, Gilbertson may have deliberately sought out his company.
But why?
Was it because Michael’s lands were in the same county as Ivanhoe’s estate?
Was Gilberton acting on Ivanhoe’s behalf?
It seemed peculiar and unlikely. But Gilberton had always been a man of mystery.
He gave the calling cards a cursory scan and then stopped. Lady Charlotte Tesley had called. That was extraordinary; why should she call upon him? How did she even know that he was in London?
He found out, the next day, when he returned the call and found Lady Charlotte at home, her daughter with her.
“My lord,” Lady Charlotte welcomed him. “It is so good of you to return my call.”
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Charlotte. I must admit that I was intrigued to see your card when I returned home yesterday afternoon.”
�
��Yes, well, it’s rather a delicate matter. You live in Twickendale, I believe?”
The subject of his residence had rarely been a matter of interest in such consecutive order.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Are you near to the estate of the Duke of Ivanhoe?”
“No, Dennington is in the southernmost portion of the county. Ivanhoe is farther north. I daresay that, should the Duke wish it, he could entertain widely, but he is rarely at his estate in the county. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, curiosity. It’s been said that the Duke is searching for his runaway bride as far away as Twickendale, and you are the only person I know who resides there. I wondered if you have had occasion to meet Lady Honora Westing there?”
“Should I have? I had heard that she ran away from her fiancé. I think it hardly likely that, having done so, she would show up near his estate. Do you not agree?’
“Mother is feeling rather anxious,” Minerva, the daughter, spoke up. “There’s a dreadful stir over all of this. Lady Honora heard the story of the murdered wife and she obviously decided to spare herself the same fate. The Earl of Winterhaven wants her to return home and resume the wedding plans before she is no longer marriageable. Lady Hestia is worried that her daughter is in dire circumstances that prevent her from returning home.”
“I see. But I fail to see why what is essentially a domestic drama should include me?”
“Because you live in Twickendale, of course,” Minerva answered as if he must not be very bright.
“Twickendale is a charming and delightful farming community,” Michael said. “I am very content there but I do not presume to think that it would capture the interest of a man of the Duke of Ivanhoe’s experiences.”
“I wish that there were some way of getting a letter to Lady Honora,” Lady Charlotte fretted. “She must be made aware of the consequences of her precipitous act.”
“Mother, if she believes herself in danger of her life at the hands of the Duke, she can hardly return.”
“But with so much attention, Minerva, she surely is safe. The Earl wishes to have her back. The Duke would not be so rash as to murder her now,” Lady Charlotte said, with a singular logic which baffled the Marquess.
