by Joan Smith
“She never done banknotes,” Lydia said, to cover her gaffe.
Sally seemed satisfied with this. “That’s true. She never did. I wager Dooley took her to someone to learn the fine points of that. The fellow who was doing it for him and Wilkie got put into Newgate for passing bad bills. He’ll be doing the hangman’s jig.” This awful fate was mentioned casually in passing. It was obviously a feature of life in Sally’s set. “Why don’t you two and me and my gent get together tonight?”
“I’m not sure what Beau has in mind,” Lydia said, looking at Beaumont. She wanted to say something to convince Sally she was who she claimed to be. With a memory of the red feathers on Prissie’s bonnet, she added, “Now that you’ve bought me this nice bonnet, I want to show if off. Wouldn’t Prissie love it. Red, her favorite color.”
“Nancy and I had planned an evening alone, Sally,” he said, putting a possessive arm around Lydia’s shoulder and drawing her to his side. Lydia stiffened at this familiarity, until she realized it was part of the act; then she tried to relax. But it felt strange, being pressed close against Beau’s hard, masculine body, with his fingers tugging playfully at her curls. Strange and exciting.
Sally gave him a knowing grin. “I see you two want to be alone. Three’s company, as they say. If I hear anything about the plates, I’ll let you know.” She rose and began to tidy her skirt. “Where’s your new flat, Nance?”
Lydia just stared. She was familiar with only the polite part of London.
“We haven’t quite decided,” Beaumont said. “We’re looking at a place on Harrowby Street this afternoon, but you can send word to my place, Manchester Square. Nancy won’t be home much. She plans to spend her day shopping. I’ll see she gets the message.”
“Lucky Nancy! Shopping all day.”
“I need a great many things. I brought very little with me,”Lydia said. She began to rise to accompany Sally to the door.
“Don’t bother. I’ll let myself out,” Sally said, and left.
“You can let me go now,” Lydia said to Beaumont as soon as they were alone.
“Not yet,” he said, his arm tightening around her. She looked at him in surprise, which grew to alarm as she read the mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“Let me go, Beau! What are you doing?”
“Just what any gent would do when he’s alone with his chère amie,” he said, and wrapping his arms around her tightly, he kissed her full on the lips. Not a gentle buss, but a firm kiss that frightened her with its ardor.
Lydia’s first reaction was shock, which quickly changed to anger at this show of lechery. She pushed at his shoulders, but he only tightened his arms around her until she was held helpless against the assault of his lips. A strangely persuasive assault that had the curious effect of turning her insides to molten honey, all hot and sweet. She felt her heart pound against his chest; it reverberated in her ears and throat like a vast, throbbing engine.
Overcome by this unexpected turn of events, Lydia didn’t hear the door opening, and Sally came pattering back into the parlor.
“Oh, sorry!” Sally said, laughing.
Beaumont released Lydia then. She looked at him in confusion, with a dazed expression on her face.
“Forgot my fan,” Sally said, picking it up from the table. “Carry on, folks. Don’t mind me. You ain’t doing nothing I haven’t done.” She ran out, laughing.
Lydia was about to chastise Beaumont, but something in his expression stopped her. He was waiting for her to make a fool of herself. He had that self-congratulatory look in his eyes. He had known Sally would be coming back. That’s why he had kissed her, to convince Sally they were lovers.
“Her fan,” he said. “I noticed she left it behind. No point in fanning her suspicion that you’re not Nancy Shepherd. No pun intended.”
“That—that’s quite all right, Beau,” she said in a choked voice. She cleared her throat and added primly, “No doubt you know best how gentlemen behave in such circumstances, but I think a peck on the cheek would have done as well.”
A slow smile spread across his lips; it rose to soften his eyes. “But it wouldn’t have been as much fun, would it?” he said in a softly insinuating voice that sent ripples of excitement trembling up her spine.
Lydia took a deep breath to steady her own voice and said, “Fun? I can’t imagine what you’re talking about. Well, we know Sally doesn’t have the plates. Shall we go?”
“Spoilsport,” he chided gently, and rose, laughing.
Chapter Fifteen
“We might as well go to St. John’s Wood,” Lydia said, when they were back in the carriage. “I shan’t say anything about adopting Richie. I just want to see him—give him the boat.” She removed her bonnet and began unpinning the poppies. “Poor tyke. I wish—Beau, would you mind driving to Whitehall first? If Papa is free, we could have a word with him before we go, and find out what his intentions are regarding Richie. You don’t have to do it. I’ll talk to him.”
“That might be best,” he agreed, and directed his driver to take them to Whitehall. “I’ll ask Sir John to come out to the carriage. This conversation had best take place where no one can overhear it.”
Lydia waited in the carriage while Beaumont went inside. While she sat alone, she planned what to say to her father. She was surprised to see her neighbor Horace Findley go into the building. No doubt he was in London on business and had stopped by to congratulate Sir John. She felt a pang for poor Horace, who had recently suffered the loss of his wife. And, unlike her father, he had no son to carry on the name and estate. That was one definite disadvantage to not marrying, never to have a child of one’s own. Horace had seemed to age ten years when his wife died, but he was recovering now. There was a livelier spring in his step.
As the minutes dragged on, she drew out her comb and mirror and began to fix her hair. The bonnet looked dowdy without its poppies. She pinned one discreet flower on the brim. Just the one gave the bonnet an air of jaunty distinction. She put the bonnet back on, using her mirror to arrange it at a saucy angle that was more attractive. She thought Beau would approve.
Perhaps she should buy a new bonnet before returning to Trevelyn Hall. Why had she thought she must dress so plainly because she planned to be a spinster? It was that sort of ascetism that gave spinsters their dreary reputation. She would buy two bonnets, and some new muslin as well. That was a pretty shade Princess Esterhazy had been wearing—yellow, but a soft creamy yellow, with green ribbons.
Quite half an hour had passed before Beau came out, and he was alone.
“It’s impossible to get a moment with Sir John,” he said. “He is at an important meeting with Liverpool and company. I hadn’t the courage to barge into the Prime Minister’s office.”
“Then we shall go on to St. John’s Wood without seeing him.” She waited for his reaction to the bonnet.
He said, “Horace Findley was there trying for a word with him as well. I wonder what brings him to London.”
“Poor man.” She touched her fingers to the brim of her bonnet, as if adjusting it. “I shall call on him when I return. He must be lonesome without his wife.”
Beaumont noticed Lydia was looking at him expectantly and wondered what caused it. “Is there anything else we must do before we leave? Do you want to have a word with your aunt?”
“No, nothing,” she said, and tossed her head aside in annoyance. He hadn’t even noticed the poppy!
“You might as well tell me, Lydia. It is a longish trip. No need to suffer it in silence.”
“It’s nothing. Nothing at all. If I am quiet, it is just that I am thinking of Richie. Do be careful of the boat, Beau! You nearly knocked that sail off.”
She looked out the window as they began the drive out of London. Beau removed his curled beaver and leaned against the velvet squabs of the banquette. “Might as well be comfortable,” he said. “Why don’t you take your bonnet off as well? It looks nice, the way you’ve put that one flower on. Rather ch
ic. Less is more, in ornamentation.”
She looked at him then, with a small smile of satisfaction curving her lips. That’s what she was after, the minx! She wanted a compliment on the bonnet. It did look rather saucy, in a sweet way.
“This?” she said, removing the hat and looking at it nonchalantly. “I thought it needed a touch of color.” She put it aside and began to talk in a more natural way about Richie, and what she would like to do for him.
“Since I don’t plan to have any children of my own, I shall take an interest in his welfare.”
“You have quite determined not to have children of your own, then?” he said, and studied her with keen interest, until she felt heat bloom on her cheeks. Having proclaimed her firm decision not to marry, she now found it difficult to change her tune, lest Beau think she was dangling after him.
“Since I don’t intend to marry, it is not likely I shall have children.”
“I want half a dozen,” he said. “Three boys and three girls. It was lonesome, being an only child.”
“I might as well have been an only child. Only one brother, and he was always with a tutor or at school or doing boy things.”
“Pity you hadn’t taken up fishing earlier.”
“Somehow I don’t think that would have pleased Tom. And I know Mama hates it. She feels my only job is to find a husband.”
“And you, being a rebel, have dug in your heels and decided against marriage—and children? Cut off your nose to spite your face, in fact.”
“It wasn’t quite that simple. I just don’t want the sort of marriage Mama has. I might marry one day, if I ever happen to meet the right man.” She was careful not to look within a right angle of Beaumont as she delivered this speech, and thus did not see that he was studying her with the keenest interest.
“Somehow, I don’t think your marriage would be like Lady Trevelyn’s,” he said, trying not to laugh.
“I hope not. If I did marry, I would want at least two boys and two girls.”
“That will make quite a crowd in the neighborhood. Six of mine and four of yours.”
She smiled into the distance. “I can just see them, all playing by the river.”
“Still trying to catch Finny,” he said, nodding. “I thought I had hooked him, that day we found Prissie’s body.”
“I shan’t tell my children about finding Prissie there. It will only put them off fishing.”
He noticed that she spoke about her future children in a way that was unusual for a young lady who had been a determined spinster the day before. “They’ll love it! Children adore horror stories.”
“Boys do, you mean.”
He took his curled beaver and set it on her head. “Are you admitting there is a difference between the sexes now, Lydia?” he asked, studying her.
“Of course there is. Girls are much nicer,” she riposted, and put her bonnet on him. “Very fetching, Beau. You will start a new style if anyone sees you.”
He removed the bonnet. “A handsome gent looks good in anything.”
The trip passed quickly in the easy banter of old friends. As they drew closer to St. John’s Wood, Lydia became quiet.
“I wonder what sort of home he was raised in,” she said. “I hope it is respectable. Poor Prissie hadn’t much money.”
“I’ll enquire at the next farm for the Nevils’ address.”
They drove on for a quarter of a mile. On the right, Lydia saw a pretty half-timbered and stucco cottage with pink roses growing over the facade. A young man was just coming from the stable, mounted on a gray cob. She took him for the owner, and hailed him. At closer range, she saw he was quite young, not more than thirteen or fourteen, but with broad shoulders and wearing a blue jacket and a curled beaver. His being on horseback had fooled her as to his size and age.
“I am looking for the Nevils,” she said. “Do they live near here?”
“This is the Nevils’ place,” he said, lifting his hat and bowing politely.
“Oh!” She smiled her pleasure to discover Richie lived in such good circumstances. The cottage was small, but more than respectable. Cows grazed in the pasture beyond it. The barns and outbuildings were in good repair, and this young man was well spoken.
“Is there a young lad called Richie living here?”
“I’m Richard,” he replied, his curiosity rising.
“You!” she cried, astonished to see her little half brother was bigger than she was.
“Did you wish to see me, or the Nevils?” he asked.
“You! It is you I wished to see.” She hardly knew how to continue after this shock. The boy was obviously not her papa’s child. Papa had known Prissie for only ten years. But the lad still must be told of Prissie’s death. And she would still do something to help him. “I am a friend of Prissie Shepherd.”
His eyes moved in an assessing manner over her, the carriage, and Beaumont. “You don’t look like her other friends,” he said. “Are you an actress, too?”
Beaumont decided it was time to get out of the carriage for easier conversing and Lydia followed him. Richie dismounted and the three of them stood together.
“No, not exactly an actress,” Lydia said uncertainly. “I have something to tell you about Prissie, Richard.”
“Aunt Prissie told me she would be leaving London and couldn’t visit me for a while,” he said. “I hope she is not ill?”
Beaumont and Lydia exchanged a questioning look. “Your aunt Prissie?” Beaumont asked.
“Yes. I am an orphan. Did you not know? When Papa died, I was placed with the Nevils. Aunt Prissie visits every week, and my uncle comes as often as he can. They are not husband and wife. Prissie is my aunt on my mama’s side; my uncle is from my papa’s side. Now that his wife has died, he wants me to go and live with him. Lonesome, I daresay. He has no children. What were you saying about Prissie?”
They began walking toward the cottage, with Richard leading his mount.
“I’m afraid she met with an accident, Richard,” Beaumont said. “She was drowned.”
“How horrible!” Richard cried. He was obviously shocked and sorry, yet not so sorry as if he’d known she was his mother. “When did it happen? Is there anything I can do? I wonder if Uncle Horace knows.”
“I’m not sure,” Beaumont said. He looked at Lydia, who was looking at him with a question growing in her eyes. “What is your uncle’s last name?” Beaumont asked, although he already had an inkling.
Richard looked at them, surprised. “Why, Horace Findley. Did Prissie not tell you? I am Richard Findley.”
Lydia gasped. Horace Findley! That model husband, the grieving widower.
To cover her shock, Beaumont said, “Findley, of course. That was the name,” and nodded, as if it had merely slipped his mind. “So, you will be joining your uncle Horace. I daresay you are looking forward to that.”
“The Nevils have been very kind. I would not say a word against them, but family is more—intimate,” he said, choosing the word with care. “And, of course, as I am to inherit my uncle’s estate, it is only fitting that I should learn how to run it, now that I am growing up. But I am most distressed to hear about Aunt Prissie. How did it happen? A boating accident?”
Lydia felt it was up to Horace Findley to decide what his son should be told. “I’m not sure,” she said. “A friend of Prissie’s told me of her death. I was very sorry to hear of it.”
As the shock of Richard’s true father ebbed, Lydia remembered the other reason she had come. “The last time your aunt was here, did she bring a parcel with her? She didn’t leave anything with you?”
“She did bring a little box, but she didn’t leave it with me.”
She had to quell her excitement, for she did not want to incite Richard to suspicion. “Do you know what she did with it?”
He pointed behind the house, into the distance on his left. “There’s a pond back there. She threw it into the pond. She didn’t know I saw her. She did it before she came to the house
. I happened to be at my bedroom window. I asked her about it. It was just some old love letters she wanted to be rid of. She weighted them down with stones and threw them in the pond. It’s not very deep, but I didn’t pull them out. I didn’t think I should look at them—and besides, they’d be all waterlogged,” he added less nobly. “She couldn’t throw them very far, being only a woman.”
Lydia just shook her head. How early this easy assumption of masculine superiority set in.
“Well, as long as the letters are safely disposed of,” Beaumont said, with a meaningful glance at Lydia.
“Who were they from?” Richard asked.
Lydia said in confusion, “I—I really couldn’t say.”
“I know Aunt Prissie had a beau. Well, a patron, to be frank. She was an actress, you know. A little unconventional, but a jolly good sort. The letters must have been—interesting, for he sent some fellow after them. He broke into the house one night. I’m sure that is what he was after. This isn’t the sort of house the ken smashers break into. As if Prissie would publish them or sell them. P’raps she just told him that for a lark. She was a great one for jokes.”
Lydia thought of her mama, who never joked or laughed. Prissie must have been a welcome change for her papa. She felt they had learned what they came to learn and was eager to be alone with Beaumont to discuss recovering the plates. She assumed it was the plates Prissie had cast into the pond, not letters.
Richard invited them in for tea. “Mrs. Nevil would like to meet you,” he said.
“We are in a bit of a hurry, but pray do give her my regards,” Lydia said.
Richard accompanied them back to the carriage and looked with interest at the crest on its panel. “I don’t believe I caught your name, ma’am.”
“We’re the Beaumonts,” Beaumont said, and shook Richard’s hand.
Richard studied the crest a moment; then he looked inside the carriage. “I say! What a handsome ship model! Is it yours, milord? I noticed the crest on your door panel,” he added, with a knowing smile. “I thought the letters must be from you, but any gentleman with such a lovely young wife would not be writing to another woman.” This was accompanied by a bow in Lydia’s direction.