The Swynden Necklace

by Mira Stables

  As she surrendered to the spell of the great actress all her personal problems were forgotten. Even though she had missed the first act of the drama she was completely enthralled, and it was not until after the performance ended and the company was discussing its merits and partaking of refreshments in Mr. Palmer’s elegant new tea room that she had time to consider the awkward situation in which she now found herself. Not even then could she devote her whole attention to its solution, since Sir Ralph Rampton was one of the party and intent on making her the object of his practised gallantries. Her air of pleasant indifference had served her very well with Sir Ralph. Knowing himself to be extremely eligible and well accustomed to being the target of much matrimonial manoeuvring, the advent of a lady who did not trouble herself to show him more than common courtesy had first amused and then piqued him until he was well on the way to imagining himself in love with her. She had some difficulty in evading his proffered escort to Beaufort Square and was guilty of prevarication, allowing him to believe that she was going back with the Charnleys. Society life was full of pitfalls she thought ruefully, contemplating the number of untruths that she had told that day. At least she was not obliged to lie to the Charnleys since fortunately Mrs. Charnley was deep in talk with one of her friends when Honor came to bid her goodnight and answered absently, saying that she was glad the girl had enjoyed the play and no doubt she would see her in the Pump Room next day.

  Since it was only a little after ten the streets were still thronged with homeward strolling pleasure makers. Once Honor was assured that her bearers had arrived punctually at the appointed hour she quite enjoyed the sense of adventure. She was not so green after all, she decided, studying the passers-by in the wavering light of the torches carried by the link boys. She could manage pretty well for herself without any interference from odious creatures who thought her unfit to be trusted with valuable jewellery. It was an attractive scene; the sedate, well-dressed people, some on foot, others borne along in chairs; the passing faces, interested and amused as their owners discussed the evening’s activities; the kind of scene that she would treasure in her memory for the long days when this brief season of excitement was done and she was once again just plain Miss Fenton, parson’s eldest girl, going about her homely domestic duties.

  A curricle came down the street, the horses held to a decorous trot as the driver weaved his way skilfully through the crowd. Not many people drove through the streets so late at night. Doubtless some belated traveller, thought Honor, admiring the skill that controlled a handsome pair. But despite that skill there was trouble in store. A ragged urchin darted out suddenly almost under the horses’ feet, checked abruptly, stumbled, fell and rolled clear. The driver pulled up his horses and the groom jumped down to see what harm had been done. Honor cried to her bearers to stop, flung open the door of the chair and stepped down into the street, stooping over the prostrate lad. Even as she put out a hand towards him he leapt to his feet, butted her savagely in the stomach, snatched the reticule from her wrist and fled back into the darkness, a jeering laugh echoing back over his shoulder. One of the chair men set off in lumbering pursuit, the other put out a sturdy arm to support the shaken, gasping girl.

  The curricle driver, seeing a lady in some sort of distress, handed over the reins to his groom and came to ask if he could be of any assistance. The circumstances briefly explained by the chair man—Honor had still not caught her breath—he shrugged. “One of the oldest tricks in the game,” he said curtly. “Next time, madame, you will know better than to waste your pity. I trust that you have suffered no real hurt and that your loss is of little consequence. If you wish it I will escort you to your destination.”

  There could be no mistaking that deep, arrogant voice. As Honor lifted her head, recognition was mutual. She drew a deep restorative breath and summoned all her fortitude to speak calmly. “Good evening, Mr. Jocelyn. You are very well come. It seems to be your fate to arrive to the rescue when I am in difficulties.”

  He bowed. “It does, doesn’t it?” he agreed, in a voice that matched hers for cool courtesy. His glance swung to the chair and from the man who was standing beside it to the one who was now returning empty handed from his fruitless chase. “Permit me to drive you home,” he said quietly.

  She could scarcely refuse, little as she wished to account for her recent dealings until she had time to collect her wits. Silently she allowed him to hand her up into the dashing vehicle that she had been admiring so short a while ago. He paid off the chair men, adding a word of thanks for their good offices, and swung himself into the driving seat. As the groom sprang up behind he bent his head so that only Honor could catch the low spoken words. “What a pestilent brat you are, my girl,” he said with the utmost cordiality. “Perhaps you would care to explain to me how you come to be gipsying abroad in this reckless and improper fashion.”

  Chapter Eight

  A fierce retort sprang to Honor’s lips, but the recollection that the groom must now be able to hear any conversation that passed between them checked its utterance. After a brief but pregnant pause she said with icy civility, “Certainly, sir. In fact it will afford me considerable satisfaction. But I cannot feel that this is exactly the moment for such a discussion. Pray curb your curiosity until we reach Beaufort Square.”

  She could not be sure, but she thought he smothered a chuckle. A swift sidelong glance, however, found no trace of amusement in that rather saturnine countenance. His attention now appeared to be concentrated on his horses and he said only, “Certainly, Miss Fenton,” and then lapsed into silence. A silence that was rather unnerving, so that when they reached Beaufort Square and he had helped her to alight, it was with some apprehension that she heard him say curtly, “You can take them home and stable them, Grayson. I shall walk back.”

  And why, for goodness’ sake, should she fear his caustic comments? Surely he was the one at fault. Had it not been for his meddling she would not have been ‘gipsying about’, she thought indignantly, trying to brace up her courage by dwelling on her wrongs. It was quite insufferable, the way he had of always taking her at fault. How could she be properly furious with him when she had still to express due gratitude for yet another rescue?

  The patent relief on Goodborn’s face when he admitted them only added to her discomfort. So far as he was concerned she had behaved very badly, as she was well aware. Tonight the impassive mask of the well trained servant was dropped and there was genuine affection in the old man’s eyes though he said only, “I’m glad to see you safe home, miss, and I gave the necklace to Jennet to lock away safely, just as you said.”

  Since she had said nothing of the kind this simple attempt at saving face for her completed her disarming. Her hands went out towards him impulsively and she said warmly, “You are much too kind to me and I don’t deserve it. I am truly sorry for the trouble I have put you to. Pray forgive me.”

  A movement behind her put an abrupt end to this affecting exchange. Mr. Jocelyn had shed his driving coat and gloves and was holding them out to Goodborn. Recalled to the unpleasant task ahead of her she said politely, “You will take some refreshment, sir? Will you bring wine to the parlour, Goodborn.” Wine sounded all right, she debated anxiously. She had no idea what gentlemen drank, nor, for that matter, what resources were at her disposal, but Goodborn would know. Thankfully she left the choice to him and led the way into the small saloon.

  Its comfortable welcome steadied her. Someone had drawn the curtains and made up the fire. Aunt Thomasine’s knitting lay on the work table beside her favourite chair. Honor felt courage and confidence mounting within her. This was home; her own ground, where she could do battle with the best. She swung round sharply on her opponent who had taken up his stance upon the hearth, only to find him smiling at her in the friendliest fashion as though inviting her to share his own enjoyment

  “What in the world have you been doing to poor old Goodborn?” he demanded. “From the tone of his welcome you might have been
his long-lost prodigal daughter. You don’t really expect him to bring in the burgundy, do you? Much more likely the fatted calf with a sacrificial wreath about its neck.”

  Honor had just drawn a deep breath and prepared to embark on a dignified reproof as to the impropriety of misdirected kindness. At the absurd picture conjured up by his words she stopped, choked and was unable to hold back a crack of helpless laughter. Goodborn, entering the room with a salver which bore, in addition to the best burgundy, a glass of lemonade and a plate of rout cakes, was slightly affronted to find Miss Fenton and her guest dissolved in a gale of merriment. Nor could he imagine why his entrance should seem to increase their mirth. Miss Fenton was actually mopping her eyes. He set down his tray and retired towards the door, wondering yet again at the odd ways of the quality. He had expected to find the pair of them at daggers drawing.

  Mr. Jocelyn’s voice stopped him, the voice perfectly serious though the speaker was still smiling. “Thank you, Goodborn. I’m afraid that Miss Fenton has discovered our little arrangement, which is why she was so out of reason cross. Trust me to make all right with her. She shall not hold you to blame, I promise.”

  Honor glared at him indignantly. How dared he try to cut the ground from beneath her feet in that unscrupulous fashion? He should not escape so lightly. “Yes, indeed, sir,” she said with an attempt at firmness, difficult since laughter was still bubbling near the surface. “Why did you take it upon yourself to supply us with chairs? You must have known that we would not have accepted your”—she hesitated over the word charity but could not quite gather sufficient resolution to bring it out and hastily substituted the kinder—“generosity—had we been aware of it.”

  Mr. Jocelyn’s face expressed only puzzled innocence. “Chairs, Miss Fenton? But the chairs are your own. They belonged to the Lady Honoria. She could never endure hired ones. I did but remind Goodborn of their existence.”

  Honor gritted little white teeth. He was laughing at her. That tiny tuck at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Her chin went up. “And the bearers? I suppose they, too, belonged to my godmother and have been carefully laid away in lavender in some attic until I chanced to need them,” she said witheringly.

  “What a delightful notion,” he said solemnly. “A pity that it is scarcely practicable! Alas, no! Miss Fenton. I must plead guilty to interference on that count and permit you to ring your peal over me as you have been longing to do this hour past.”

  “Thank you, sir.” A little smile of triumph curved her lips. “You will be so good as to tell me how much I stand in your debt for their wages—and also for the hire of that very delightful mare which I do not doubt is also of your providing. When I have discharged my obligations I may be comfortable again.”

  Lean brown fingers caressed his chin. His face was the very pattern of deep concern save that the blue eyes were still abrim with laughter as he told her, “You are putting me in a very difficult position, Miss Fenton. I would most willingly give you the information that you require since it seems that nothing less will satisfy you, but I am not in a position to do so, since I have not expended any monies on your behalf.”

  She stared at him in horror, the shamed scarlet mantling her cheeks as she slowly realised the position into which her impetuous assumptions had led her. If Mr. Jocelyn was not responsible— Oh! She could never hold up her head again.

  He understood. His whole expression changed. The teasing twinkle vanished. He stooped, almost tenderly, and caught both her hands in his, folding them together between his strong palms. “Don’t look like that, child! You are perfectly correct in your reading of the situation. No need for that shamed face. It is quite true that I have not paid any monies in your behalf, but I am responsible for the provision you mention and you did very well to challenge me. Had I dreamed that you would ever guess the truth I would have been more open with you—or rather with your aunt, who is, I take it, the head of your household here. Come. Sit down and drink your lemonade and let me explain.”

  Relieved of her most pressing anxiety she allowed him to install her in Aunt Thomasine’s chair and even so far recollected the claims of hospitality as to beg him to pour himself a glass of wine. He did so, but did not immediately drink it, setting it on the mantel shelf and then propping his broad shoulders against that same convenient support, hands thrust into the pockets of his breeches as he looked down at her, considering how best to word his explanation.

  Since she had discovered so much, he decided, only the truth—or most of it—would serve. “Your chair men are actually the servants of a gentleman who owns an establishment just outside the city, but who, by the nature of his calling, spends much time abroad. The mare too, comes from his stables. In the past I have, upon occasion, been of some service to this gentleman and so I have license to call upon the resources of his establishment. You see how the matter stands? The men are delighted to have so light and pleasant a task. They find the city more entertaining than a masterless establishment. The mare is the better for the exercise. In fact no one is a penny the worse for an arrangement that gives you a measure of security and comfort.”

  He had put it very well, he felt. Surely even a girl’s delicate pride must be soothed by so simple and straightforward an explanation.

  It was. But there was one factor that he had overlooked in his reckoning, since he was unaware of it. He knew nothing of the visit that the girl had paid to Swynden Hall. Though he had been deliberately careful to avoid names, Honor could guess very well the source of her ‘measure of comfort and security.’ The knowledge confirmed her belief that concern for the safety of the Swynden necklace had been the real reason for the arrangement, a belief that she found both painful and humiliating. She found herself burning with a most un-Christian desire to inflict pain for pain.

  “I accept your explanation, sir, and thank you for your kindly consideration for my comfort,” she said, in a wooden little voice utterly devoid of warmth. “Unfortunately, I prefer not to put myself under any obligation to the Marquess of Melborne. Nor, I am convinced, would he wish me to benefit, even at second hand, from his affluence, since I understand that he and my Aunt Honoria were on the worst of terms. His mare may return to her stable and I will no longer deprive him of the services of his footmen. If he still feels it necessary to guard the Swynden necklace he must find some other means of doing it.” She finished on an angry little sob which quite spoiled the dignity of her earlier phrases.

  But that last thrust had penetrated his guard. The negligent, tolerant figure that had been leaning against the mantel shelf stiffened into outraged rigidity. Honor drew a swift startled breath. She had not known he could look so frightening, the blue eyes narrowed to a wrathful glint.

  “Who has been tattling?” he shot at her.

  “N-no one,” she stammered. “I guessed.” She hesitated. How did you tell a man—an angry man—that you had guessed him to be an illegitimate descendant of the illustrious Swyndens? “You must be aware that you bear a marked resemblance to one of the portraits in the gallery at Swynden Hall,” she said carefully. “When you spoke of ‘the gentleman who was much abroad’, it was not difficult to guess the rest. I am right, am I not? You are a connection of Lord Melborne’s? He is the one you meant?”

  The threatening poise of the muscular body relaxed; the blue eyes were friendly again. “You are right in part,” he said slowly. “Wrong, most deeply wrong, in believing that Lord Melborne would grudge you a moiety of his service. Far from being on bad terms with your godmother, his lordship was much attached to her. Oh! I believe there was some enmity in the early days of the marriage, but no one could long resist her ladyship’s gentle affection.” His voice hardened again. “As for your suggestion that I am in conspiracy with his lordship to guard the Swynden diamonds, that, my girl, is an insult for which you would pay dearly if you were not female.” He relented a little at the sight of her abashed countenance and went on more kindly, “Does it not occur to you that, wearing them in
public so much as you do, you are offering temptation to every scoundrelly cut-purse in the city? Or that, in snatching the necklace, the thief would not be tender of its wearer? You had a foretaste tonight of what could easily happen, and that urchin was no more than ten or twelve years old. How would it be if two or three desperate ruffians made an attempt on you for the sake of the necklace?”

  She had never thought of that. The city had seemed so orderly, so well conducted, that it was difficult to imagine violence and crime festering behind the smooth facade. It certainly put a different slant on the precautions that had been taken to protect her. Oh dear! She was in the wrong yet again and would have to apologise.

  While still she strove to frame the penitent phrases, Mr. Jocelyn ended in a final burst of indignation, “No doubt Lord Melborne would like to have the necklace back. It is, after all, a family heirloom. But he will seek it by honest purchase, not by trickery or conspiracy.”

  She looked up at him curiously. “You must hold him in high esteem to speak so warmly on his behalf,” she offered diffidently.

  He looked staggered. “I? Think highly of him? Indeed it is no such thing, I promise you. He is selfish and arrogant—hardened by the wiles of the place-seeker, the toad-eater—till there is little of human warmth in him. But even the devil deserves his due. He would not wish any harm to an innocent girl, just because chance—or design—had put the Swynden necklace into her keeping.”

  Honor forgot her apologies and tilted her head in puzzled enquiry. “Design?” she said.

  He nodded, curtly. “Yes. Oh—not of your making, child. But the whole business is a strange one. Lady Honoria might have left the necklace away from the family out of bitterness—but I am assured that this was not the case. So why? It may well have been done to ensure that you were drawn into Lord Melborne’s orbit. If he wished to buy back the necklace he must seek you out to do so. Perhaps she dreamed that history might repeat itself; that another Marquess of Melborne might succumb to the charms of a second Honoria.”