by Joan Smith
The echo of hoofbeats on the road beyond told them Dooley had escaped. The back door of the Nevils’ house opened, and the sound of men talking came to them from the distance. They would have heard the shots and had come out to investigate. Neither Lydia nor Beaumont felt like answering questions. They lay still until they heard the door close again.
When Beau let out an accomplished string of curses to release his temper, she was in no mood to chastise him.
“Pity they got clean away,” she said, “but we’re unharmed. He might have killed us.”
“They’ve got the plates on them. I’ll notify Bow Street as soon as we get back to town.”
“They won’t have them by then, Beau. Dooley is awake on all suits. He will have hidden them somewhere and run to ground himself. He must have followed us from town.”
“He knew your name. It wouldn’t be hard to find out where Sir John lives. Odd we didn’t notice them following us.”
“There was that gig—but Dooley was on horseback. I expect he kept off the road and followed us from the nearby fields. I wonder who the second man was.”
“Just reinforcement. Dooley was running the show.”
She shivered, and Beau went back to retrieve their outer clothing. Beau threw her mantle over her, and they put on their shoes.
“We’d best get back to town and out of these wet clothes,” he said. “Dammit, I should have foreseen the possibility that Dooley would be following us.”
“It’s water under the bridge. Let us think what we must do now.”
They went back to the carriage—cold, shivering, and thoroughly disappointed at the futility of their endeavor. The coachman looked at them in amazement. When Beau questioned him, the man said he hadn’t seen Dooley or his henchman, either coming or going. They had obviously seen their rig and avoided it.
The cruelest blow was that they had actually held the plates in their hands. Lydia was supportive, but Beaumont felt he had let her down. A fellow liked to show to best advantage in front of the woman he loved. But with two armed men, and a lady present besides, what could he do? He had nearly gotten them shot as it was with his foolish attempt at heroism. What would they have done to Lydia if he had gotten himself killed?
“I can’t take you home looking like this,” he said. “uou’ll have to come to Manchester Square to get cleaned and dried.”
“Does your mama have an old gown I could borrow?”
“We’ll find something.”
The return trip seemed endless. Nothing of an intimate nature passed between them. They were too cold and uncomfortable and dejected. Beau sat thinking how he could catch Dooley, and Lydia wondered just how serious Beau had been about their engagement. He had not actually asked her to marry him. It had all been done in jest, really. He would not have behaved so intimately with her under normal circumstances, but when two people were dumped into a pond together, the normal rules of polite conduct no longer seemed to apply.
When they reached Manchester Square, they still had the ignominy of entering Beaumont’s polite mansion looking like a pair of drowned rats.
“We had a dunking in the Serpentine,” Beau said to his butler in a voice that did not invite comment. “Lost a bet. Show Miss Trevelyn to a guest room. Find her some dry clothing, and send up a servant and hot water. My valet will take care of me.”
Lydia was ushered into a charming guest room done in shades of green and gold. The fire was lit, a tub of hot water was brought, and the cleaning process began. Even her hair had to be washed. The maid was too discreet to ask questions, but Lydia could see her curiosity was on the boil.
“I hope you weren’t hurt, miss” was as forthright as the girl dared to be.
“No, not at all. It was a foolish bet.”
“His lordship hasn’t gone in for pranks like this for years. It’s just like old times.”
The maid toweled Lydia’s hair dry, but it was still too damp to arrange properly. She pulled it back in a knob to keep the wet hair from her neck and gown. As Lady Beaumont was a large dame, Lydia had to settle for a chambermaid’s dress, and felt she made a very poor showing in a plain dimity frock when the job was done. She hated to appear in front of Beaumont looking so unattractive, especially when he had changed into evening clothes and looked particularly handsome in a burgundy jacket and gray pantaloons.
His smile was hardly more than formal as he handed her a glass of wine and led her to the grate.
“That’s better,” he said, looking at her unusual toilette.
“I feel I should be carrying a broom or duster.”
“I should be wearing a cap and bells. I feel a perfect fool. How could I let Dooley walk away with the plates? I should have kept after him.”
“And gotten yourself killed? Now that would have been foolish. We have already plucked this crow.”
“Sane and sensible, as ever,” he said.
That was as close to a compliment as he came, if it was a compliment. “You’ll want to get straight down to Bow Street. You can drop me off at Grosvenor Square on your way.” She took a sip of the wine and set the glass aside. “I’m sorry I put you to so much trouble, Beau.”
“I’m sorry I let you down.”
“You didn’t.”
“Just what you expected of me, eh?” he said ruefully.
“We made a mistake. Let us not beat ourselves over the head about it,” she said brusquely. How many times was he going to raise this unpleasant subject?
Beau noticed her scowl and felt worse than ever. “I’ll take you home now,” he said, equally brusquely.
He put the mantle over her shoulders and they went out to the carriage for the short drive to Grosvenor Square.
“We’ll both put our minds to the problem tonight and talk about it in the morning,” Lydia said as they drove up to her front door. Beau had not tried to put his arm around her, nor done anything to suggest he loved her. “Bow Street might have an idea,” she said.
He accompanied her to the door. When Blake tried to take her mantle, she brushed him away, but she noticed he was looking at her damp hair in a curious way.
With the butler observing them, Beau said only, “I’ll call on you tomorrow morning. Sleep tight.”
Lydia went straight upstairs, to avoid the butler’s curiosity. She thought over the situation as she prepared for bed, and she hid the maid’s clothing in her bandbox. Even if they never caught Dooley, this trip had done her some good. She had been jolted out of her complacency. Her knowledge of life had gone from reading books to living—and she had fallen in love. She wondered how she could ever have been so childish as to think she would be happy as a spinster, ignoring all the wonderful fulfillment of love and husband and children.
But did Beau really love her, or had the exuberance of finding the plates led him into saying more than he ought? His silent brooding during the drive home suggested he was unhappy with the situation.
Her strenuous evening left her ravenously hungry, which made sleep difficult. At midnight she slipped down the back stairs to the kitchen. As it was empty, she made a cup of cocoa and helped herself to bread and butter from the larder. She took a tray to her room and enjoyed the snack. Within an hour she was asleep.
In the morning, she rose early and asked Hildie to help her dress. She had decided that she would make a pitch for Beau, and this called for a special toilette. The blue-sprigged muslin looked well with her black hair, which glistened from last night’s washing. Hildie arranged her coiffure in a more intricate do than she usually wore, with her hair drawn up off her face and caught with a blue ribbon in a bundle of curls behind.
She tapped at Nessie’s door and poked her head in to say good morning. Nessie took her breakfast in bed. She sat propped up on a pile of pillows, jotting down a list.
“Good morning, Lydia. Did you have a good time at the rout?”
“Yes, a lovely time. How was your party?”
“Wonderful! A wonderful party. I am just making up a lis
t for Sir John’s soiree. I must have some sort of do in celebration. You and Beaumont will stay for it, I hope. It will be early next week.”
“I’ll ask Beau,” she replied, and made her escape before Nessie enquired whether she was engaged yet.
Sir John was just leaving for the House when she reached the breakfast room at nine o’clock.
“I have had a letter from your mama,” he said, handing her the short note.
“Is she coming?” Lydia asked eagerly.
“Alas, no. Her rheumatism is at her. Pity. I shall try to get home next weekend.”
Lydia glanced at the note. It was just what she expected. As Sir John would be so extremely busy, it did not seem worth her while to come. Nessie would see to the house, and as her rheumatism was acting up, Lady Trevelyn thought it best to stay at Trevelyn Hall. Perhaps John would pick up some red embroidery wools for her at Mr. Wilks’s when he had a moment. Lydia could bring them home with her.
Lydia sighed and set the letter aside. “I’ll get the embroidery wools, Papa. You are too busy.”
It was just as well Mama was not coming. She would only be an added burden on Papa if she did come. Lydia was sorry, but with her new maturity and compassion, she did not lay blame. It had been an ill-advised marriage. Her mother was a deep-dyed provincial who was unhappy in high company. She should have married some country squire.
Lydia was having her second cup of coffee when Beaumont was announced. Her heart leapt when she saw his beaming smile. He does love me! she thought, and her eyes glowed with delight.
“You’ll never credit it,” he said, sitting down beside her and giving her fingers a squeeze, when she hoped he would at least buss her cheek. “They’ve caught Dooley.”
“Already! How did they do it?” She was thrilled at the news, but a corner of her mind took note that his smile was not due to seeing her, but to his message.
“A pair of Bow Street officers were in that gig we saw near the Nevils’ place. They were following you, to see no harm came to the new Cabinet Minister’s daughter. They even saw Dooley hold us up.”
“I wonder they didn’t come to our aid!”
“They didn’t want your name involved at all. They just watched until we were sent back into the pond, then ran to their gig to follow Dooley and his friend, Sanders. Dooley led them straight to the printing shop where the counterfeit money has been made all along. They caught the whole gang. A fellow called Wilkie is in charge. Quite a coup for Bow Street.”
“And Papa’s name will not be mentioned?”
“Why should it? He had nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, I am glad. It helps to make up for ... everything,” she said comprehensively, thinking of her years of neglect and her high-handedness over Prissie. “Will they press charges against Dooley for Prissie’s murder?”
“They are looking into it. No doubt someone will have seen him in Kesterly, and there is Sally’s evidence of the watch.”
“Her being found in Pontneuf River rather points to Papa,” she said, frowning.
“Or to me. Or to Horace Findley, for that matter. I doubt she intended to pester Sir John at home. My own feeling is that she wanted a look at Findleys place while she was in the neighborhood, to see where Richie would be raised. She could have learned from Sir John, or at the inn, of the shortcut through the Chase to Findleys estate. Dooley feared she was running to Sir John for help and killed her. No reason any of that need come out at the trial, however. She was running away from Dooley and happened to be caught there. I expect they’ll get their conviction. When do you want to go home?” he asked.
The situation went from bad to worse. Now he was eager to be rid of her. And he hadn’t even noticed her new coiffure.
“I thought I would stay a few days. Nessie is having a party for papa early next week. You are invited, of course. Are you in a hurry to get home?” She peered at him anxiously, noting his frown.
“I am, rather, but I have a few things to do here first. Is Sir John at home?”
“He’s left for work.”
“Pity. I wanted to speak to him.” He sat frowning for a moment, then looked up. “Or Nessie would do.”
“What is it you want? Perhaps I could—”
Beau reached out and took her hand. His smile was tender, with love glowing in his dark eyes. “I know you are a very independent lady, but for propriety’s sake, I think I ought to speak to your papa, or your chaperon at least. As it is merely a formality, however...”
As his fingers closed over hers, a realization dawned. He wanted to ask Papa for her hand. He did love her! Her lips trembled into a smile.
“Are you sure, Beau?” she asked. “If it is only because of last night—because of what you said—”
“My sweet idiot, it is because I have loved you forever,” he said, and drawing her to her feet, he kissed her soundly.
Copyright © 1998 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (0449001539)
Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.