The Waverly Women Series (3-Book Bundle)

by M C Beaton

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ah, the dear Season. I wonder you can bear to leave it. Does the Prince Regent attend many functions?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Crabtree. His Royal Highness enjoys parties as much as ever.”

  “How beautiful he was as a young man,” sighed Mrs. Crabtree. And “Beautiful … beautiful …” murmured her friends in a sort of Greek chorus. “Our young Prince Florizel. We were all in love with him.”

  One thin lady leaned forward and muttered fiercely in Mrs. Crabtree’s ear.

  “Yes, but she don’t want to know about a scandal like that,” said Mrs. Crabtree. She smiled at Felicity. “Old gossip. One of our dashing young matrons set her cap at the prince all those years ago. Her poor husband. Such a to-do.”

  Felicity sat up straight, her eyes suddenly shining with excitement. “Was this matron’s name Waverley, Mrs. Waverley?”

  “No, no.” Mrs. Crabtree shook her head, and the Whitby jet ornaments on her cap glittered in the lamplight. “It wasn’t that. Now, what was it?” The ladies put their heads together and whispered and muttered, but not one of them could remember the name. “She wasn’t from here,” explained Mrs. Crabtree. “York, I believe.”

  ***

  The marquess sat at the desk in the lawyer’s office going through a pile of receipts and books and papers. They were all connected with three buildings in Cliff Place East. The lawyers had records of having received money for the rentals and then of sending bank drafts to Mrs. Waverley at Hanover Square and then, more recently, to Baroness Meldon at Meldon. The marquess took a note of the address. The office contained no other clue. He could only hope there was some elderly resident in one of the properties who remembered Mrs. Waverley.

  He put everything back in place, glad that the office, unlike most lawyers’ offices, was so well-dusted. That meant he did not have to worry about leaving smears and fingerprints.

  Having spent a long time finding the right key on the ring to open the office door, he was able to close it quickly and make his escape. Although it was early in the evening, the town streets were deserted. The residents went to bed early. Only the fashionable, elderly dowagers and visitors stayed up late in the hotels.

  He was walking along the blackness of the esplanade when he nearly collided with an amorous couple who were locked in each other’s arms. He muttered an apology, swerved, and went on his way.

  “That was Darkwater!” cried Agnes. “Did he see us?”

  “No,” said the comte. “He did not, my darling.”

  “Oh, then, kiss me again,” said Agnes.

  “I cannot,” said the comte, who had had more than enough of Agnes. “I fear I could not restrain my passions. Oh, that we could be wed!”

  For once in her life, Agnes very nearly fainted—such was her emotion on hearing those beautiful words.

  “But why can’t we marry?” she asked, pressing close to him.

  “I am a poor man. I lost all my fortune. My parents were guillotined, and I was brought to England as a young boy. I have my wits and talents and a certain skill with cards, but I could not ask any lady, especially one of gentle birth and sensibility such as yourself, to share my vagabond life.”

  “Take me!” said Agnes, throwing her head back. “We will wander the roads of England together, like gypsies, stealing an occasional crust of bread and living on berries.”

  He sighed. “It does seem an unfair life when such as Felicity Waverley has a fortune in jewels and thinks so little of them that she leaves them to molder unseen in some bank vault. No! Forget I ever spoke of marriage. It is impossible.”

  He waited hopefully in the darkness. How long would it take the silly bitch’s mind to work it out?

  “I could take that receipt for the jewels,” said Agnes at last. “We could collect the jewels and flee the country.”

  He almost laughed with relief. But instead he said passionately, “I cannot expose you to such danger. Come, I will kiss you one last time.”

  Agnes, dizzy with passion and mad with hope, spent quite half an hour persuading him to let her do what he had been manipulating her into doing in the first place. Then she said in dismay, “But could we get to London in time? If Felicity finds the receipt missing immediately after I have taken it, she will write to the bank and send the letter by the royal mail coach, and nothing is faster than that.”

  “All you need to do,” he soothed, “is to let me have the receipt for an afternoon. I will make a fair copy, which you will return instead of the original.”

  A sharp stab of fear shot through Agnes’s brain. A cynical voice in her mind pointed out he appeared to have thought of everything. But his lips found hers again, and she gladly shut out that nasty voice.

  The marquess stopped outside Felicity’s room and then decided to wait until morning. It was too late to speak to her. But the sight of that amorous couple wrapped in each other’s arms in the blackness of the night had roused and stirred his senses and brought old dreams and longings flooding back.

  He raised his hand and knocked gently. He was about to turn away when the door was opened by Felicity. She was wearing a white nightgown trimmed at the throat and wrists with fine lace, and over it she wore a white silk wrapper lined and trimmed with swansdown. Her thick chestnut hair was brushed down on her shoulders. “Come in,” she cried.

  “I should not have come,” he said awkwardly. “You had better leave the door open.”

  “It is too cold to sit in a draft,” said Felicity, “and no one is about this time of night.” He walked in, and she shut the door behind them.

  “I was successful in finding out where the properties are, but nothing else,” he said. “But perhaps there might be someone there who can tell us something about Mrs. Waverley.”

  Felicity knelt down on the hearth and picked up the tongs. “I had better make up the fire,” she said. “It has turned chilly.” He knelt down beside her and took the tongs away from her. “Let me do that,” he said.

  She smiled at him suddenly. He knelt there beside her and then gently put the tongs back on the hearth and turned to her. The candlelight was shining on her hair, and her eyes were large and dark. Her lashes were so long, he could see the shadow of them on her cheeks. He could smell the light flower perfume she wore. He put his hands lightly on her shoulders and bent his head toward her lips.

  He felt her tremble slightly under his hands. He remembered his wife’s disgust at any physical intimacy whatsoever. He could not bear any form of rejection from Felicity Waverley. That he realized with a stab of pain. He shook her shoulders lightly and said huskily, “Go to bed. It’s late. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Felicity nodded dumbly but did not meet his gaze. He rose and left the room.

  Felicity got shakily to her feet. She had been so sure he meant to kiss her. She had wanted him to kiss her. She clenched her hands into fists and glared bleakly about the room. How terrible to fall in love with the very man who might find out your birth was so disgraceful, he could not possibly marry you!

  ***

  The marquess had hired a curricle to drive about the town. It also meant he could avoid taking Agnes along with them as he would have had to do if he and Felicity had been in a closed carriage.

  It was perhaps unfortunate for the comte’s plans that the marquess chose to be especially kind to Agnes at breakfast. He felt guilty about leaving her behind. She was, after all, related to him and had had a poor sort of life, filled with snubs and neglects. He smiled at her and asked solicitously after her health and apologized for the first time for the rigors of the journey. Agnes blossomed under all this attention and became convinced once more the marquess was enamored of her. She felt very powerful. Here she was, Agnes Joust, with two handsome men competing for her favors. The comte had asked her to meet him that night on the esplanade and to give him the receipt. He had said it would be safer to make the substitution overnight instead of leaving it to the insecurity of a bare afternoon.

&
nbsp; When Agnes was finally told she was again being left behind, she accepted it with good grace. Of course, dear Simon was anxious to get this tiresome business about Felicity over and done with. She gave him a conspiratorial smile of sympathy.

  She planned to take her knitting downstairs. She would need, of course, to keep her eyes on her work. With such dangerous charms as she had been proved to have, she must watch she did not ensnare any other poor gentleman.

  She would go to meet the comte that evening just the same. Perhaps she might even let him kiss her in farewell. It would be a touching scene, but she would tell him gently that her heart belonged to Simon. Perhaps he might be so distraught he might dash himself on the rocks below the esplanade. Agnes gave a delighted shudder. She would try to hush it up, but it would get into the newspapers somehow, that Agnes Joust, fiancée of the Marquess of Darkwater, had driven an attractive French aristocrat to his doom. Women would stare at her jealously and accuse her of being a Delilah, but Simon would proudly take her arm as they walked out and, with flashing eyes, defy anyone to say anything against her. She might even allow Felicity to come on a visit after they were married, and gently, as a married woman, point out to the spinster Felicity the folly of a lady learning too much. “Brains should be left to the men,” she would say. “You know I have always told you that, Felicity dear. Now, there is a nice young man coming to dinner tonight who would suit you very well. The curate. Not very handsome, but a lady in your position cannot look too high.”

  Felicity dressed in one of her best outfits to go driving with the marquess. She wore a morning gown of apple blossom sarcenet with a high ruff and a large mantle of pale blue mohair in the form of a cloak. On her head was a yellow straw hat with a brim à la Pamela, ornamented with a broad plain blue ribbon.

  She felt shy in the marquess’s company and longed for a return of their old easy companionship.

  As they walked from the hotel together, she heard an elderly voice calling, “Miss Waverley! Miss Waverley!”

  Felicity turned around as Mrs. Crabtree came hurrying up to her. Felicity introduced her to the marquess. “Such a little thing,” said Mrs. Crabtree, “but I thought it might interest you. That lady we were talking about the other night, you know, the one whose name I could not remember.”

  “Yes,” said Felicity. “What was it?”

  “It came to me in the middle of the night. It was Bride. Yes, yes, her name was Mrs. Bride.”

  Chapter Eight

  “You have had a shock,” said the marquess as he climbed in beside Felicity and picked up the reins. “What was all that about?”

  “Drive on,” said Felicity quietly, “and I will tell you.” He flicked the reins, and the horses tossed their manes and set out along the esplanade at a brisk trot. They had gone a little way when he slowed their pace and then said, “Now, what did she say that upset you so?”

  “That was a Mrs. Crabtree,” said Felicity. “I met her last night. She and her companions were talking about an old scandal. The Prince of Wales came here as a young man. One of the local matrons set her cap at him. I asked if the lady’s name had been Mrs. Waverley, and Mrs. Crabtree said no. She has just told me she remembers the name. It was Bride. Mrs. Bride.”

  “And what is the significance of that?”

  “That was the surname we had at the orphanage, Fanny, Frederica, and I. Bride. Oh, do you think …?”

  “I do not think it possible that the now Prince Regent stayed long enough to father three girls in Scarborough, however long ago, without the scandal being generally known. The occasional by-blow can be hushed up, but not three of them.”

  “So you think it might be a coincidence?”

  “No, not exactly. It only adds to the mystery.”

  He turned into Cliff Place East, a cul-de-sac. The buildings were three stories high and made of red brick, in good order, and with the steps well-scrubbed.

  The houses were divided up into apartments. They rang bells and knocked at doors, but no one appeared to have heard of Mrs. Waverley. The rent was collected by a man from the lawyer’s office; that was all they knew.

  “Is there anyone quite old living here?” asked the marquess. He was told there was an old lady called Mrs. Shaw who lived in the attic at number seventeen.

  It seemed a long climb up to the attic, and Felicity wondered how an old lady managed to cope with so many stairs.

  Mrs. Shaw answered the door herself. She was a dwarf of an old lady, with wisps of white hair escaping from under an enormous cap. Her face was crisscrossed with wrinkles, and she had ugly white hairs sprouting from her chin, but her faded gray eyes were sharp with intelligence. They introduced themselves and were ushered in, the marquess ducking his head to avoid bumping it on the low ceiling. The room was neat and clean, a clutter of odd bits of furniture, bric-a-brac, shawls and fans, and a linnet in a cage by the window.

  The marquess explained they were trying to find out about a Mrs. Waverley, and Mrs. Shaw shook her head. “I can remember everyone I ever met, and I never knew a Mrs. Waverley,” she said.

  “But she owns this property,” cried Felicity.

  “Ah, but I never met or knew the owner of this property,” said Mrs. Shaw. “Someone in London, I believe.”

  Felicity turned her head away to hide her disappointment. The marquess was just picking up his hat and gloves again to take his leave when Felicity suddenly said, “But did you ever know a Mrs. Bride?”

  “Ah, her,” said Mrs. Shaw with a cackle of laughter. “What a woman!”

  “Tell me about her,” said Felicity.

  “She was a buxom, handsome lass who had just given birth to a baby girl. Her husband was a rich landowner. I think he owned coal mines in Durham, although they lived in York. They came here so Mrs. Bride could drink the waters and recuperate after the birth. The Prince of Wales, a wild young man at that time, came here, and well, they barely tried to hide their love for each other.”

  “Mrs. Bride and the prince?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Such a scandal it was,” said Mrs. Shaw dreamily. “Such excitement. And then all at once it was over. The Brides disappeared from Scarborough, and the prince’s fancy was taken by someone else, quite a plain woman.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Let me see, it was a Lady Torry, a Scottish lady.”

  “Do you know exactly where in York the Brides lived?”

  “I could not say. No one here ever saw either of them again.”

  “So we had better travel to York today,” said the marquess as they climbed into the carriage again. “I am sure if we find out about the Brides, we will find out about Mrs. Waverley.”

  They were turning out of the cul-de-sac when Felicity thought she saw two people she recognized, but when she twisted about and looked back, there was no one there.

  “That’s odd,” she said. “I thought I saw Comfrey and Harris. They were standing at the corner of the street. But I must be mistaken.”

  “Just in case you are not mistaken,” he said grimly, “we had better set out for York right away.”

  Agnes was upset at the speed of their departure. She scribbled a hasty note to the comte to say she had gone to York and that Darkwater had sent a servant to reserve rooms for them at the Swan Inn. She felt for a moment she should tell him she could not see him again, but then the idea that a jealous suitor in hot pursuit might bring the marquess up to the mark occurred to her, so she sent him her love instead.

  But she did wish she had told the comte to be careful in approaching her again, for the marquess’s servants were all armed, pistols primed and ready, and Felicity was calmly sitting in the traveling carriage and priming her little pistol like a veteran.

  “Why are you doing that?” cried Agnes. “It is a sunny day, and we shall reach York by nightfall. There is no fear of highwaymen.”

  “You never know” was all Felicity would say.

  “Are you any
nearer in solving the mystery?” asked Agnes curiously.

  “Perhaps. I do not know.”

  “Poor Simon,” sighed Agnes. “I am sure it is a burdensome task for him. I am sure he now wishes to wed and to return with his bride to the West Indies.”

  Felicity carefully placed the loaded pistol on the seat beside her and said in a colorless voice, “I did not know he was interested in any lady.”

  Agnes gave a sly little giggle. “I will not betray Simon’s secret, but be assured, he is on the point of proposing marriage.”

  “Why did he not tell me?” asked Felicity. “I would have gone on with the investigation myself.”

  “Well, it is not likely he would confide something of such an intimate nature to you,” said Agnes. “I, being of his own blood, am a different matter.”

  “And who is this lady?”

  “I was told in confidence,” said Agnes primly.

  Felicity felt very low. She had thought he had been on the point of kissing her last night. She must have been mistaken. Of course he had no interest in her. He had been friendly and charming, but he had shown not one sign of wishing their relationship to be anything more serious, and he had had ample opportunity to do so, had he wished.

  The carriage jolted across the moors, the sun shone down, and Felicity felt more miserable than she could ever remember feeling in the whole of her life.

  Then as they were traveling through a tract of deserted moorland, the horses suddenly reared and plunged. The carriage slewed across the road, and there came a hoarse cry of “Stand and deliver!”

  Agnes screamed and flung herself facedown on the floor. There came several sharp explosions. Felicity seized her pistol, let down the glass, and leaned out. The carriage dipped and swayed as the marquess and his coachman jumped down from the box. The grooms and outriders were standing around two men who were sitting on the ground, one nursing his leg and the other his arm.

  Felicity opened the door and climbed down onto the road and went to join the marquess.

  “Take off their masks,” ordered the marquess. The groom, John, stooped down and ripped off the masks. From behind them, Agnes’s hysterical screams sounded from the carriage.