Lord Haven's Deception

by Donna Lea Simpson

  A more incongruous setting for the dirty, stained, almost illegible note there could not be, for the tabletop was an enameled painting of a lady with panniered skirts, sitting on a bench with an amorous swain at her feet, gazing up at her adoringly. Around the edge of the table was a series of smaller vignettes featuring ladies and gentlemen in much the same attitudes of pastoral love.

  The dowager read the note and then pushed it back to her grandson. “Something odd about that,” she said, frowning and chewing on her lip. “For one thing, the handwriting is far too good.”

  “That was what I thought,” Haven said, glaring down at it as if it could offer new answers if only it would, though he had stared at it so much it was virtually imprinted on his mind.

  “And I do not think,” the dowager said slowly, “that the same fellow who would misspell so many simple words, like ‘to’ or ‘you,’ would be able to spell perfectly when it came to the words ‘we’ll’ and ‘contact.’”

  Haven stared at the note. “You’re right, Grand. But . . .” He stopped and thought. “What that means is that this was meant to look like the work of an uneducated worker, but was more likely the work of someone of a much higher class.”

  The old woman nodded. “So, not one of the local laborers. Perhaps not someone from around here at all. But that gets us not a single step closer,” she said.

  He refolded the paper and put it back in his pocket, moving awkwardly on the dainty chair. “I’m not so sure of that; it at least gives me something to look for. I will go out to Varens’s place. He has heard a story from his stable manager that I think I ought to investigate, even though it would seem to have no bearing on this case, merely the attack of a barmaid from the Swan. From what I understand he saw this girl being attacked and then the girl ran off. But if the girl was unwilling, and the men were at her anyway, it might indicate men who were willing to do that sort of thing to a female. I’ll go and see.”

  The dowager nodded. She glanced at her grandson and then away, choosing her words with great care. “If you find the poor girl—Miss Dresden, I mean, not the barmaid—her reputation may well be in ruins, you know,” she said slowly, moving things about on the table as she expressed her concerns. “I feel we owe her something, for after all, she would not have been at the inn if she was not coming to meet you, Haven.”

  “I never wanted the damn match. It was Mother!” he protested. “I know I must marry sometime, and I admit that I did not stop her from inviting this girl.” He ran one hand over his thick sandy brown hair and sighed deeply. “But I do see what you mean. I feel for the poor girl; who knows what she is going through right now. But does that mean I have to marry her?”

  “Would that be so terrible?” the dowager asked. She frowned over at her grandson and continued, carefully, as if treading on ice. “She is of good birth, Haven, her dowry is excellent, the family females are said to be decent childbearers, and from her miniature, she is tolerable.”

  “Tolerable?” he snorted. “Your eyesight is failing, Grand. She looks like butter would not melt in her mouth. She looks prim and ill-tempered and as though my lips would freeze if I dared kiss her.”

  “But she is handsome enough and has no visible defects.”

  “Is that all I should want?” he asked, standing and pacing to the end of the room. It was a corner suite, so there were windows overlooking both the south terrace and the west gardens. “No visible defects? Sounds like I’m testing a horse’s teeth or wind, not a young lady’s qualifications for marriage. I could stand any defects at all. I wouldn’t care if she was lame, or without hearing, or plain, or even ugly; none of that would matter if I saw a single trace of warmth in her eyes, or—”

  “What do you want?” the dowager asked, an acerbic edge to her voice.

  “Damn it, Grand, I want a girl I can . . . can care for at least, if not love. I don’t want some frivolous belle of the ball who will demand a new wardrobe every season and will hate Yorkshire.” He swore and slammed has hand against the window frame.

  “Haven,” his grandmother said sternly. “Look at me.” He turned toward her. “You are thirty-one. It’s time for you to marry and past time that you got over this ridiculous prejudice against girls of your own class. Just because you were an awkward country gent in a sea of town tulips does not mean every girl who has had a London Season will look at you with scorn.”

  He turned back to the window, folded his arms over his broad chest, and stared out bleakly over his land, his eyes traveling the well-known hills. “You have no idea the depths of their scorn, nor the vitriol of their sneering, Grand. You were not there. There is not a one of them I would be able to stand to bed, if you want the bare truth. Prim, prudish little ‘prunes and prisms’ misses, all of ’em.” He spat out the last words.

  “Then marry one of them anyway,” his grandmother, exasperated, cried. “And spread her legs in the dark where you can pretend she is a bar wench!”

  “Damn it, Grand, I want more!” Haven thundered, whirling and planting his hands on the table. “I—want—more!”

  “Then tell me what you do want!” she shrieked back in his face, thoroughly enjoying the turbulent confrontation.

  “I want Jenny!” He could not believe he had said it. His words echoed in the high-ceilinged room, seeming to take on a mocking life of their own. Jenny. The name whispered back at him from the windows and paneled walls.

  The dowager sat back, looking like a cream-filled cat. “And just who is Jenny?”

  Haven slumped down into a chair. “Mary Cooper’s cousin. She’s visiting.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Lovely.” He closed his eyes and smiled. “So very lovely. Skin like Devon cream and lips like rose petals. Laugh like a bell; sweet, though, not clanging. Unaffected. Intelligent. Good-natured.”

  “And clearly not of our class. Not if she is Mary’s cousin.”

  He shrugged. “Does that matter?”

  “Of course it does! Not to me.” The dowager snorted. “Good Lord, Haven, I only have another two or three years on this earth if I am lucky. I will not waste any of it bemoaning your wife’s lack of birth.”

  When the viscount stole a glance at his grandmother’s face, he saw only compassion. As always, there was an empathy between them. She understood him in ways no other person on earth did.

  “But to her, it will,” she said. “I will not say that an unequal marriage cannot work. When there are only the two involved, it can. But you have a mother, two sisters who will marry in time, and a position to uphold. Is it fair to ask her to join you in a marriage in which—”

  “God, Grand, I did not say I wanted to marry her!” He could not bear to hear all of her reasons why Jenny would not suit.

  “Ah. You only want a poke at her?”

  “No!” he shouted. “Well, yes, but not just that!” He was revolted, for once, by his grandmother’s forthright, old-fashioned crudeness. In the normal course of things he might rail at her unseemly language though he would laugh as well, but there was no laughter in his heart just then.

  He sat down across from her and looked her in the eye. She was getting old, was his Grand, and there was no disputing that. The once taut and smooth skin was a fine net of wrinkles and her eyes, though still blue, were rheumy and watering. Grand was always the one he could talk to over his own mother or even his father. She had to understand, he had to make her understand this one thing. He had caught a glimpse that afternoon of all that he had ever wanted, all that would make his life bearable—more than bearable. It would make his life complete to have someone like Jenny to love. “I want to just talk to her. I want to sit by the fire with her while she sews. I want to watch our baby grow in her, and be there when she—or he—is born. I—” He put his head down, feeling the enameled panels cool under his overheated skin. He felt his grandmother’s hand on his head smoothing back his ruffled hair, and he smelled her rose perfume, as familiar as his own scent.

  “You want
someone to love.” There was a deep sympathy and understanding in her voice. “That is no mystery. And you have this fairy-tale romance in your mind of a cottage in the woods and you and some plump little wench filling it with children.” She sighed. “But you are Geraint Walcott Haven . . . Viscount Haven,” she continued, her voice taking on a bracing, stirring tone. “Lord and master of a grand inheritance. Your wife must be someone who can fill the position required of her with grace and elegance. That is for her own comfort, Haven, not for yours. Does this girl even know who you are, holder of an old and illustrious title in your own right and noble descendant of the earl of Warwick—Warwick the kingmaker—and the largest landholder in the North Riding?”

  He sat up and gave her a rueful smile and shook his head.

  “I thought not,” she said dryly. “Do not think she would be impressed, Haven. She would likely think you were just another nobleman looking to jump into her bed for a cuddle and a poke.”

  “Grandmother!”

  “Grandson!” Her tone was mocking.

  He could not stay angry at her. She only told him what she knew to be right, after all. Or what she believed to be right. “You, old dear, are incorrigible.” He grinned at her and caught her hand in his own and kissed the palm, feeling the silk-soft skin under his lips.

  “When you smile like that you are almost as charming as your grandfather,” she said with a twinkle that changed to a rueful look. “He liked maids too, and bar wenches, and being married to me did not always stop him from indulging his tastes.” Her expression grew more serious. “Do nothing until we find this poor girl. I feel we are committed to helping her and making what reparation we can for her terrible kidnapping. And do not put so much store in Miss Dresden’s painting. After all, perhaps the day the portrait was made she had just eaten a rotten quince and had an upset stomach.”

  Haven nodded and chuckled. “Thank you, Grand,” he said, cupping her cheek. “Thank you for listening. If I had told Mother about Jenny she would have thrown one of her more memorable fits, I am sure.” He stood and walked toward the door. “I’ll find Miss Dresden. If she has been kidnapped and is out there somewhere, I will find her. I promise I will not let myself become distracted again.”

  “I know you’ll find her, Haven,” the dowager said. “I have faith in you.”

  Haven left, closing the door behind him, but the dowager sat where she was for at least half an hour staring blankly at the teapot.

  Chapter Seven

  Miss Pamela Neville slunk out the door and raced to the stable, intent on not letting her mother see her in her disreputable riding clothes, a remnant of her childhood days. They were old—very old—breeches of her brother’s. Not a soul in the household even knew she still had them, secreted in her hidden stash in a trunk in the attic along with reminders of her father and a precious gift of cherry-colored ribbons Colin Varens had given her when she was just eight. She saddled her mare with a groom’s saddle instead of her hated sidesaddle and flew out of the stable yard before the groom had a chance to even see her.

  Free. She was free for at least the afternoon.

  Haven Court, always the site of petty squabbles, quarrels and disagreements, had become even more unwelcoming of late with the addition of Lady Mortimer, whom Pamela detested, and the disappearance of the silly wench her brother was pledged to marry.

  Quickening her mount—a bay mare named Tassie—to a gallop, Pamela flew over the familiar ground, and instead of opening the gate and walking her mount out, she urged Tassie to jump one of the stone fences, the last barrier between her and the freedom of the high, barren moors. They soared together over the obstruction, the mare as eager as her rider to flee to freedom. The high moors beckoned and the gloomy gray of the sky could not dampen Pamela’s delight.

  Marriage. Haven was finally seriously considering it. She knew he was and she hated the thought of the changes that would bring to the easy relationship she and her brother enjoyed. She spurred Tassie, trying to outrun, over the high fells, the awful knowledge of change coming, change chasing her, years going by and the inevitable alteration of people and places.

  Even her own wretched body. She was different now and she felt it, could see it in the mirror. Grand said she ought to be married by now and have babies. But even though she was easily old enough—she was all of nineteen, and some of her friends had been married for a couple of years now—she was just not sure whether she even wanted a husband. After all, it would mean an end to these glorious rides. She trotted to a prominence and stopped, looking out over the brilliant green landscape, shadowed by the darkening, thickening clouds. As always she felt a thrill of joy at the sensation of Tassie heaving and huffing beneath her, and the brisk wind that swept up the moor.

  It was all so different from London.

  She had been to London the previous year for the Season and a sillier waste of time she could not imagine. She didn’t mind so much the dresses. A lot of the clothes were so pretty and sometimes she had even felt like a princess, adorned in white and wearing Grand’s lovely old pearls. She got impatient standing while clothes were fitted to her, but she would just lose herself for that hour that she stood being poked and prodded by her mother and the seamstresses in thoughts of the moor and riding Tassie. She started her mare down the descent into one of the valleys that snaked through the moorlands, going from a walk to a trot as she thought back to her London Season the previous spring.

  In the brief months she had been in London she had constantly been in hot water, for any free time she had was spent in the stable of their London house and she had picked up the colorful language she still peppered her talk with, to her mother’s mortification. She had slipped out of the house alone on one memorable occasion, and had been seen once galloping in Hyde Park—oh, horrors!

  And that was all before the official Season had begun. Their London Season had been cut short by the death of their father’s sister, an elderly tyrant whom nobody liked, but whose death could not be ignored. Rachel had sulked for at least one full month out of the three required for mourning an aunt, but Pamela had been rather glad. Not glad that old Aunt Viola was dead, just glad to escape London before having to attend too many of the stultifying balls, routs, card parties and Venetian breakfasts that were the meat of the London social Season.

  Not that she had not been enjoying herself; she had, but in all the wrong ways, according to her mother. She had met some jolly lads and had slipped away with them once to see a prizefight. She had caught no end of breeze about that particular escapade! Even Grand, when she heard about it, had told her she had gone too far.

  This year, to Rachel’s chagrin, it had been decided that the needs of the master of Haven Court must supersede his sisters’ Seasons, so they would welcome his supposed bride to his home for a protracted visit rather than making the arduous journey to London. There had been no end of dustup over that, and Rachel was still not back to any kind of equable state.

  Pamela trotted up to another rise, the loftiest hilltop immediately near Haven Court, and gazed across the land, letting her beast walk for a moment and finally halt so they could both catch their breath. London was all well and good and there had been any number of opportunities to kick up a lark or two or three, but really, when all was said and done, this was where she belonged. She gave a happy sigh. Yorkshire, where the air was clean and free and where a girl such as she was not looked at as if she was a caper-witted little gapeseed.

  Marriage to one of those London dandies her mother had been pushing at her would mean leaving Yorkshire, likely, and she couldn’t imagine never riding these hills again. Of course, she wouldn’t have to leave if she married someone local, someone like—

  She sighed once more, only this time it was a sigh of utter defeat. Tassie danced impatiently, sidling and throwing a glance over her shoulder at her rider, so Pamela raised her to a walk again and started down the hill. She would not have to leave Yorkshire if only she could marry someone like Sir Colin
, who was desperately in love with Rachel, who didn’t give a fig about the poor sot. Rash, wild plots pelted recklessly through Pamela’s brain, audacious schemes to entrap the hapless Sir Colin into marriage with her, only to collide headlong with reality. If she succeeded, she would be married to a man who didn’t care for her. At least now he treated her with a careless, brotherly affection. If she trapped him into marriage, he wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of her. That would kill her, she was sure. He was her friend as well as her perfect fantasy husband.

  Pamela urged Tassie on to a canter, and then a gallop. She rode neck-or-nothing down the long slope into the valley hoping to work out the fidgets both of them were experiencing. When girl and beast were both thoroughly exhausted, Mary’s cottage was in view, so Pamela trotted up to the small barn, threw herself off the horse and tied her up, letting the poor animal rest and crop grass around the base of the ancient building that housed Esther and the chickens, and Lally, the very pregnant barn cat.

  “Mary!” she called, striding toward the cottage, then realizing she really shouldn’t shout so. The baby might be asleep.

  The baby! Skeptical about children in all their grubby glory, Pamela had nonetheless been enchanted by Molly, by small pink fists and soft dark hair, by wide eyes and a tiny perfect mouth. She would likely never have children of her own—she could not see herself birthing and then caring for one of the little humans—but she hoped Rachel had lots and lots so she could spoil them completely, teach them to ride, and give them treats ’til they were sick! She strode to the cottage just as the door opened, but it was not Mary who stepped out. Pamela stopped and frowned. “Who’re you?” she grunted, surprised into discourtesy.

  The young woman’s eyes widened, and she stuttered, “I’m M-Mary’s cousin.”

  “Who is it, Jenny? Is it . . . oh, Pammy!” Mary came out from behind the younger woman. She looked Pamela up and down and glanced over at Tassie, heaving and snorting still, and laughed. “Escapin’ the confines o’ home, are you?” She cast one worried glance at Jenny and bit her lip. “Well, come on in. I’ve just finished feedin’ Molly and she is nigh asleep, lookin’ like a wee angel.”