by Jane Ashford
Bess’s frown gave way to a sunny smile, and she took a few steps toward him. “You can help me choose,” she offered.
“No. I have in mind a companion for you who can do that.”
The girl’s dark brows came together again. “Companion?”
“A most respec—amiable woman who can show you the sights of London.”
“I won’t have her.”
“Then you’ll have no new clothes.”
It was another standoff, but this time, after a long glare, Bess gave way. “If I don’t like her, I’ll run away,” she added.
“But not, I assume, before your new gowns arrive.”
She glared at him again.
“Be ready at two. I will escort you to your new lodgings at that time.”
With a grimace, Bess flounced from the room.
She was ready at the appointed time, however, carrying a small case packed with nightclothes and other small things she had been given by the Beckwiths. But when Sir Richard would have taken her through the back premises to the stables, she balked. “I’ll walk out the front door like a lady,” she insisted. “I’m not one of your servants.”
“You will do as you are told,” replied Sir Richard, very conscious of listeners in the rear hall.
Bess darted to the front door, flung it open, and ran out. After an instant of enraged disbelief, Sir Richard followed her to the pavement. It took all his self-control not to shake her. Before he could speak, she had signaled a hack from the cross street, and the driver had turned toward them and started to pull up. Sir Richard grasped Bess’s upper arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“We can go in the hack.” She struggled, and he pulled her against his chest, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I am in charge here. You’d be wise not to forget that.”
Their eyes locked at a distance of only four inches, and Sir Richard held her immobile to reinforce his command. Neither looked around when the sound of hooves and carriage wheels again approached along the cross street.
And thus, neither saw Julia Devere go past in her parents’ vehicle. She had directed the coachman to take this route, past the Beckwith house, with a thrill of shame-faced joy. After last night, she wanted a glimpse of his home to reinforce her pleasant dreams. She would not stop, of course. Julia knew this was silly, but she couldn’t resist.
What she saw, however, was the man who had kissed her so passionately last night clutching another beautiful, black-haired girl to him, his face shining with more emotion than Julia had ever seen in it.
Julia shrank back in her seat and crouched low until the carriage was well past his street. She struggled for breath, fighting a pain that filled her chest and constricted her throat. The after-image of the two of them would not be banished; it blazed in her mind, hurting her over and over. Her world seemed to be falling in ruins. And the worst of it, illogically, to Julia was that her rival was dark-haired, like her.
The same emotions she’d felt when she first heard Lord Fenton’s accusations boiled up again, with far greater intensity. To them was added a bitter sense of betrayal. Julia was stunned when she thought of Vauxhall. That he could hold her so when he had this…paramour! She could not believe it. Yet this time, she had seen it with her own eyes. The fact could not be denied. She should break off the engagement at once.
With this thought came such overwhelming desolation that Julia pushed it from her mind. It was too soon to act, she told herself. She needed to recover. Reaching home, she flung herself down from the coach and up the front steps, startling the servants with her unaccustomed violence. In her room, she sat in an armchair, hands clenched, staring straight ahead, and gave in to the mad whirl of her mind.
* * *
“Get in,” said Sir Richard curtly to Bess, pushing her toward the hack.
She snatched her arm from his loosened grip and complied.
Sir Richard gave the grinning driver the address and followed, his lips still tight with annoyance.
They made the short journey in silence. When the cab pulled up again, he jumped out and paid the fare, leaving Bess to get out on her own. The hack left them standing outside a tiny narrow house, squeezed between two larger ones and obviously too small to be a desirable property. It was outside the fashionable area of London, but not so far as to be beyond the pale. Bess looked the structure up and down. “Not a prime house,” she decided.
“I suppose you think you should have a mansion in Grosvenor Square?”
The girl grinned, her ill humor forgotten. “This’ll do for now.”
“Really? I’m so pleased.”
Bess actually laughed, a pleasant sound, and Sir Richard’s anger eased a bit. She was really little more than a child, he thought, and if her ideas were wrongheaded, her education was at fault. “Shall we go in?” he asked.
Bess trotted happily ahead of him, pausing beside the front door with an eager expression. This shifted to puzzlement when he rang the bell. “Your companion moved in this morning,” he said in response.
Her scowl returned.
The lock scraped, and the door swung open to reveal a gray-haired woman of about fifty with a broad, ruddy face and sturdy frame. Lines in her face suggested that a smile was her natural expression, but the look she turned on Bess was wary. The girl eyed her with equal disfavor.
Sir Richard smiled. “Mrs. Hanlon, this is Bess Malone. Bess, a countrywoman of yours. I thought that would please you.” He, at least, was pleased. He had devoted hours of thought to the choice of a woman to oversee Bess until he could find some permanent place for her. He had thought first of his old nurse, but she was rather frail these days, and certain to be shocked to her Midlands core by Bess’s opinions and behavior. Sir Richard had then run through a mental list of pensioned servants and tenants on his estates in Hertfordshire, but none seemed suitable until he remembered Dora Hanlon. The widow of his former head gardener, Dora had come up to town to live with her sister upon her husband’s death. She was fully capable of dealing with any tricks Bess might play, and unlikely to be shocked by her unorthodox views. She would also, Sir Richard knew, be glad of the wage he offered, and he was pleased to have the opportunity to give it to her in a way she would accept. The bargain had been struck at once when he called at her sister’s cottage, and she had moved her things immediately.
“Good day,” said Mrs. Hanlon in a lilt to match Bess’s own.
Bess eyed her silently.
“Come in, then.” Mrs. Hanlon stood back, and they entered the tiny hall. “Will you take something, Sir Richard?”
“No. I shan’t stay. I came only to bring Bess.”
For the first time in Sir Richard’s experience, Bess looked uncertain. “What will I do here?” she asked.
“We’ll find plenty to do, my girl,” answered Mrs. Hanlon. “The place is all over dirt. And there’s meals to be cooked and pots to be scrubbed.”
Bess’s brief hesitation vanished in outrage. Hands on hips, she glared at Sir Richard. “I told you I would be no housemaid!”
“No, indeed. You will be working for yourself. Quite different.”
“I won’t!”
“Ah? And what of your new gowns?”
Bess clenched her fists and looked thwarted. Then, she seemed to think of something, and her blue eyes shifted craftily. “All right, then,” she said.
Sir Richard was not deceived, but he had every confidence in Mrs. Hanlon. “I shall say good-bye for now. I’ll call again when I have some suggestions for your future.”
Bess shrugged. Sir Richard met Mrs. Hanlon’s eyes meaningfully, and the older woman nodded. Reassured, he took his leave.
His relief was premature, however. Before dinner that evening, a footman came to knock on his bedroom door and report that a messenger from Mrs. Hanlon waited below. Sir Richard, in the midst of changing to go out, frowned. �
��What the deuce? Have him come up, John. I must dress or I shall be late.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sir Richard dismissed his valet and continued to tie his neckcloth. After a short interval, there was another knock, and the footman ushered in a good-looking young man with red hair and bright hazel eyes that took in every detail of his surroundings. “Who are you?” asked Sir Richard.
“Michael Shea, sir. Dora Hanlon’s nephew. She sent me to you as she didn’t care to leave the house, thinking the girl may come back.”
Sir Richard’s hands stopped moving. “Come back?”
“Aye. She’s taken herself off.”
“I placed Mrs. Hanlon in the house to prevent just such a thing.”
“Aunt Dora’s not a young woman, Sir Richard. You can’t expect her to be climbing out of windows after some wild hellion and breaking her neck on the shed roof.”
“Bess climbed out an upstairs window?”
“Aye. Quite a girl, she must be.” There was admiration as well as censure in the Irishman’s voice. “Mayhap you should let her be, Sir Richard.”
Beckwith turned and examined Michael Shea closely. He looked to be about five and twenty, a few years younger than Sir Richard himself. His clothes were of a fashionable cut but not of the highest quality; he compensated with an air of jaunty confidence and ruddy good looks. His hazel eyes seemed ready to twinkle at the least excuse. “I am trying to help the girl, no more,” answered Beckwith coolly.
“Well, I haven’t heard the full story.” Seeing that his lightly mocking tone was irritating Sir Richard, Michael Shea added, “And it’s none of my affair, of course. I just carried Aunt Dora’s message. I’ll be going.”
“How did you come?”
“In my tilbury.” There was irrepressible pride in Shea’s voice, and Sir Richard was indeed surprised to hear that he kept a carriage, however modest.
“I’ll return with you, then. That will be quickest, and I can go on in a hack.” Seeing Shea’s expression, he continued, “Have you some other errand?”
Sir Richard was irritated about Bess, and some of this came out in his tone, which was clearly that of a baronet and landholder to the nephew of a servant. It was unlike him to speak so, but the circumstances were unusual.
Michael Shea stiffened, and his hazel eyes snapped with something other than mischief for a moment. But then he caught himself, shrugged, and grinned. “None that won’t wait a bit.”
Sir Richard felt a twinge of conscience. “Thank you.” He put on his coat, and they walked downstairs together, where Sir Richard gathered his hat and stick. In a moment, they were seated in Michael Shea’s somewhat showy tilbury and moving briskly along the street. “A good-looking animal,” said Sir Richard of the horse that drew them, trying to atone for his sharpness.
“Isn’t she? As an Irishman, I do pride myself on my cattle.”
Silence fell between them, two strangers of very different background and habits. Sir Richard complimented Shea once on a delicate bit of driving, but otherwise they said nothing until they arrived at the house where Mrs. Hanlon waited.
She was out the door at the first sound of their carriage wheels. “Sir Richard,” she said, “I’m that sorry. I went to make tea, and the girl walked upstairs. If I’d had any notion she’d be climbing out the window, I’d have stayed closer by.”
“You could not, of course,” said Sir Richard, “though I warned you she was troublesome. Let us go in now and think what to do.”
Michael Shea tied his horse and followed them, to Sir Richard’s surprise. When the three of them stood in the front room, however, he was at a loss. He could not start a serious search for Bess. That would be both too public and futile, he felt. She could be anywhere in London. He didn’t want to simply let her go in a dangerous city. Yet he was also conscious of relief at the idea that she was beyond his reach.
The other two were looking at him expectantly. Sir Richard cleared his throat and tried to settle his mind—then the bell at the front door pealed loudly, followed by a series of thumps that sounded like kicks on the panels.
They hurried to open it. As soon as Mrs. Hanlon shot the bolt, she was pushed back by Bess, who marched in, blue eyes blazing and black hair awry, her small hands clenched at her sides. “He spent my money!” she exclaimed. “He gambled it all away, the blackguard; it’s gone! A thousand pounds, gone!” Her lower lip trembled, and it hung in the balance whether she would burst into tears.
Sir Richard’s reproaches died in his throat. “The money from the club?” he asked.
Bess nodded, fighting tears with all her energy.
“Who lost it? Young Wearingham?”
“How did you know?” Surprise temporarily overcame Bess’s outrage.
“I recognized him that night. It wasn’t difficult. You and he arranged the thing between you, didn’t you?”
Bess nodded again.
“You shouldn’t have trusted him. He is well known to be far, far into dun territory.”
“Lord Charles Wearingham, that’d be?” asked Michael Shea, who had been gazing admiringly at Bess. “Badly dipped.” He shook his head. “I heard he dropped five hundred guineas at hazard.”
“Mine!” cried Bess. “How dare he?”
“He’s a gamester. In the blood. Can’t help it.” Realizing that the other three were staring at him, Shea subsided.
“But it was my money,” declared Bess. “We had an agreement. He…he stole it.”
“Did you think you could trust the men you met at the Chaos Club?” asked Sir Richard.
Michael Shea stared from Bess to Sir Richard.
“I met you there,” she retorted.
Shea’s hazel eyes widened further.
Sir Richard clenched his jaw, then took a breath. “I am still ready to help you. We will find you some—”
“Respectable employment!” Bess spat the words. “I’m sick of the sound of it. I don’t want to be begging from the likes of you for a shilling or a new gown. I want to go my way and do as I please without starving or cowering in fear of my life.” Bess’s Irish lilt increased with emotion, and she looked magnificent in her rage. Michael Shea was obviously much struck.
So was Sir Richard, in a different way. His gray eyes, usually so cool, filled with compassion. “I understand you.”
This seemed merely to enflame Bess further. “You? How could you understand? You’ve never had to beg for anything in your life.” She whirled and threw herself at the stairs, racing up them so fast it was astonishing she didn’t trip over her skirts. A choked sob was heard just before she vanished.
There was silence in her wake for a long moment. Finally, Sir Richard said, “I must go. But I will return tomorrow evening, and we will try to form some plan.” Dora Hanlon and her nephew looked dubious, but Sir Richard took no notice as he bid them good night.
When the door had shut behind him, Michael Shea turned to his aunt. “What a spitfire,” he said of Bess. “Tell me all about her, Aunt.”
“She’s nothing to do with you,” was the reply.
“I know that. But we both love a good tale, don’t we now?” He grinned, and Mrs. Hanlon’s face softened.
“You’re an incorrigible rogue, Michael. I never could resist you, but where will you end? That’s what I ask myself, and so does your mother.”
“I have my plans for that, no fear. Now, tell me about this Bess.”
“Come into the kitchen, then, where we can shut the door. If she heard, she’d be down on our heads like a summer storm.”
“She would that,” replied Michael admiringly, following his aunt out of the hall.
Six
Sir Richard went on his way with relief. He found Bess singularly exhausting, and though he pitied her now and fully intended to help her if he could, he had been conscious of a renewed oppression when she
appeared in the cottage doorway. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he had made a mistake. He would of course see the matter through, but he rather wished he had never heard of the Chaos Club, nor overheard two of its members anticipating the scandalous auction. His outrage had driven him to the rescue; now, he couldn’t quite see what to do.
Had he never heard of Bess, he thought, he might be devoting all his attention to Julia Devere and their plans for the future. The thought of Julia brought a reminiscent curve to his lips. She was everything he wanted in a woman. Where Bess was irritating to the point of madness, Julia was in harmony with all his wishes; where Bess was constantly rebellious, Julia was compliant without being spiritless; where Bess was a drain on one’s energy, Julia seemed to renew it. And though both were undoubtedly beautiful, Julia’s serene loveliness was far more to his taste than Bess’s tempestuous beauty.
As his hackney pulled up before the Deveres’ hired house, Sir Richard smiled in anticipation. How pleasant it would be, he thought, to spend the evening with Julia after coping with Bess’s tantrums and complaints. Julia would not reproach him, even though he was nearly an hour late. He could not conceive of a reproach falling from her lovely lips. Memories of their last encounter rose in his mind, and his smile broadened.
Thus, Sir Richard was taken aback to receive a markedly cool greeting from his betrothed as he apologized for his tardiness. “A business matter kept me,” he told Sir George and Lady Devere.
“What a great deal of business you have lately,” said Julia in frigid accents. “Has there been some disaster on your estates?” Her parents glanced at her, startled at her uncharacteristic tone.
Sir Richard met her pale green eyes and blinked. They were icy, wholly lacking that soft glow he so loved. Moreover, he had not concocted a story to explain his lateness. He had not thought it necessary. “A, er, problem with a tenant,” he replied.