by M. C. Beaton
“You’d better let me keep the jewels,” he said. “If there are any villains about, they’re more likely to attack two defenseless females.”
Miss Mary hesitated, looking at him with cold, calculating eyes. “Very well,” she said thoughtfully, “but to ensure your safety, Captain, I am sure you will not object to us locking you in your room.”
“Not at all,” said the captain cheerfully, an idea having just struck him. “I’ll take a turn about the yard before I retire. I would like to blow a cloud, and I know you ladies can’t stand the smell of smoke.”
Once in the yard, the captain lit a cheroot and began to amble up and down, glancing occasionally up at the inn windows. From time to time he would bend down, pick up a handful of pebbles, and stuff them into one of his capacious pockets.
At last he went back upstairs to join them. Miss Mary handed him the leather bag, and then both sisters marched him to his room, inspected the window to make sure the captain could not possibly get his great bulk through it, and then left, taking the key and locking him in.
The captain sat by the window for a long time, making sure they had no intention of returning.
He opened the bag and took out the diamond tiara and the diamond collar. Then he took out a sharp knife and got to work. He prized every gem free of its setting and spread them around the many pockets of his coat. Then he returned the denuded settings to the bag and added the pebbles he had collected and piled on a table to the bag, hefting it in his hand until he was sure he had the correct weight. Then he opened the window and tossed the remaining stones out into the yard.
He was awakened at four in the morning by Miss Cassandra. They were setting out while it was still dark, she said.
Grumbling, the captain finally hoisted himself up on the box. Miss Mary had not looked in the bag. He sincerely hoped she would not think of doing so before they reached Dover.
It was still dark. A warm, gusty wind was blowing from the south, bringing with it the smell of flowers and leaves and approaching rain.
A great flash of lightning lit up the surrounding countryside as he turned out of the inn yard, followed by an earth-shaking crack of thunder.
Inside the coach, Miss Cassandra let out a faint scream.
Captain Cramble devoutly hoped both ladies were scared of storms. With good luck their fear would keep them too occupied to look at the contents of the leather bag.
A great blinding sheet of rain struck the horses and carriage. Lightning split the darkness again, and the horses reared and plunged.
The captain was debating whether to turn about and head for the shelter of the inn when another flash of lightning lit up the road ahead, showing two tall figures on horseback, barring his way.
Highwaymen!
The captain gave a gasp and clumsily began to try to turn the coach. But it was slewed across the road, unable to go backwards or forwards, when the two highwaymen rode up.
He slumped over the reins, trying to look as much like a hired coachman as possible.
He looked down into the masked face of one of the men, shrugged, and jerked his thumb towards the carriage door as if to say, “There’s where your money is.” But one kept him covered with a pistol while the other wrenched open the door.
The Hope sisters stumbled out into the drenching rain.
The captain turned his head away. These men were hardened criminals. Occasionally impoverished gentlemen took to the road and prided themselves on having a certain gallantry when it came to dealing with the ladies, but these two were ruffians. Both the carriage and Miss Mary and Miss Cassandra were ruthlessly searched. All their money was taken, along with their trinkets and jewelry.
Then one of the highwaymen lifted out the bare settings and looked at them curiously. He tilted the bag and shook out a pile of pebbles onto his hand.
Another flash of lightning showed both sisters, the empty settings, and the pebbles.
“You stole them,” screamed Miss Mary over the sound of the storm. “Thief!” She pointed up at the crouched figure of the captain on the box.
“Fool!” said Miss Cassandra bitterly. “You fool, Mary. If you’d kept your trap shut, we could’ve had them off him later.”
But it was too late. The captain was already being ordered down from the box.
“Turn out your pockets, my brave cully,” snarled the leader.
The captain looked at the highwayman’s pistol, but it never wavered. Slowly he turned out each pocket, passing over pile after pile of gems.
When he got to the last pocketful, he took them out slowly and suddenly hurled them full in the highwayman’s face. He turned and took off down the road as fast as his short little legs could carry him.
“Let him be,” growled the other highwayman, picking up the jewels. “Loose the horses from the coach, Jemmy.”
The one called Jemmy took out a knife, cut the traces, and yelled and shouted at the horses. Already frightened by the storm, the animals took off and galloped down the road, bunched together, in the direction of the inn.
Still keeping the sisters covered with their pistols, the highwaymen swung themselves up on their horses.
“They’ll tell the law on us,” said the one called Jemmy. “Shall I shoot ’em?”
“Naw,” said his companion, looking at the shivering sisters with contempt. “Bunch o’ thieves, that’s wot they are. Tryin’ to double-cross each other.”
Both men swung about and rode off into the storm.
Miss Mary and Miss Cassandra stood for quite a long time in the rain, each abusing the other.
The thunderstorm which had plagued the sisters and Captain Cramble rolled into London at six in the morning. Miss Manson lay tossing and turning. If it continued, the May Fair would be canceled. It was no longer the great fair it had been in former years.
At last, unable to bear the worry, she got up and dressed herself and went to sit by the window. It should have been light, it should have been dawn, but the black clouds seemed to lie on the tops of the very houses.
Miss Manson’s bedroom was near the top of the tall house, so she had an excellent view across the rooftops of the West End of London.
When eight o’clock struck and she was weary with waiting and watching, a roof in the far distance suddenly turned to gold, then another, and another.
The clouds parted, and Miss Manson dreamily watched a little patch of blue sky grow bigger and bigger. The rain ceased as abruptly as it had started. The thunder gave a faint, disgruntled roar like some great beast retreating to its cave in the sky.
Golden water chuckled in the gutters. Across the square, a housemaid threw up a window and shook out a rug.
Miss Manson fell into a light sleep, waking with a start at the bustle and noise outside. She opened the window and looked out. The servants were crowding up the area steps, dressed in their finery. She counted them carefully, making sure no one had been left behind. At last they were all gone.
She took a deep breath and straightened her cap. She made her way to Frederica’s bedroom, squared her shoulders, wrenched open the door, and rushed in.
“Oh, Frederica, my love,” she cried. “Please awake. My lord is ill!”
Freddie woke immediately. “Where? What?”
“Come quickly,” gasped Miss Manson. “Lord Berham… oh, it is too terrible.”
She turned and ran from the room. Frightened out of her wits, Freddie ran after her.
Miss Manson ran along the passageway and threw open the door of Lord Berham’s bedroom. Freddie rushed past her and into the room.
Miss Manson quietly closed the door firmly behind her and locked it. She pocketed the heavy key and, mumbling a silent prayer, went off to the head of the stairs. She would return in a few minutes to listen at the door and see whether her plan had worked.
Freddie was not aware of the door closing. She stood with her hand to her mouth, looking at Lord Berham’s still face against the pillow. What if he were dead?
She
glanced around and, not seeing Miss Manson, assumed that she had gone to get help.
“Augustus,” she said in a trembling voice, using his Christian name for the first time. “I am so sorry I have been such a plague to you. Oh, don’t die.”
His eyes flew open, and he stared at Freddie in amazement.
“Don’t try to rise,” she said as he struggled up against the pillows. She took his shoulders and tried to push him down into the bed again.
“Are you drunk?” he snapped. “What is going on?”
“Miss Manson awoke me. She said you were deathly ill.”
“That woman’s crazy. I am not ill. Now, will you leave me alone and go away.”
Freddie realized that she was still holding him by the shoulders and that his shoulders were naked. “I was only concerned about your health,” she said in a voice which now trembled with rage. She swung about and stalked to the door.
“It’s locked,” she said in a puzzled voice.
“You have more hair than wit,” said the earl nastily. “Oh, turn your back while I get out of bed. Women!”
He slid into a long silk dressing gown and tied it firmly about his waist. “Now,” he said, edging Freddie aside. He turned the handle and then wrenched it. It refused to budge.
He marched over to the fireplace and rang the bell. After a few moments had passed and no one came, the earl let out an oath. “The servants are all at the fair. Where’s that Manson woman?” He kicked at the door with his bare foot, stubbed his toe, and hopped back across the room, swearing fluently.
Freddie giggled. “You do look funny.”
“Well, unless that Manson woman comes to let us out, we are trapped in here until five o’clock, and I hope that amuses you. Since there is nothing else to do, I am going back to sleep. You may do as you please.”
Freddie looked at him mutinously and then walked to the window and pulled aside the curtains.
“Come away from there!” he said sharply. “That nightgown you are wearing is nigh transparent in the sunlight.”
Freddie made a move to cover her breasts, and then her hands dropped to her sides. “What if it is?” she said defiantly. “The sight of my body is not going to rouse you to mad passion.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, “but do remember the passions of the watchman and stand away from the window.”
“He can’t see me from the street, and if he could, he might at least try to get in and help us.”
“Are you not ashamed to be seen by me in such a state of undress?” asked the earl caustically.
Freddie was, but she was not going to let him know it. She looked him up and down. It was obvious he was wearing nothing under his robe.
“You don’t seem to have much shame yourself,” she said, emboldened by hurt and pique that they should be alone in his bedroom and that it should mean nothing to him.
“It’s different for a man,” he said crossly.
Freddie flounced over to a chair by the fire and sat down. The firelight flickered on the soft stuff of her gown, revealing tantalizing glimpses of her body. She leaned forward to put a lump of coal on the fire.
“Leave it,” said the earl harshly. “This room is warm enough.”
Indeed, he did look very warm. His face was flushed, and faint beads of perspiration stood out on his brow.
Freddie’s anger fled, and she looked at him with quick concern. “Perhaps Miss Manson is right and you are ill.” She walked over to him and stood on tiptoe and felt his brow.
The earl let out a groan.
“Oh, Augustus,” said Freddie, throwing her arms about him. “I am a wicked girl. You are ill. You were merely being brave. I am going to open the window and scream for help. I am—”
He put his hands at her waist and held her a little away from him. She could feel the heat from his body and see the feverish flames flickering in his eyes.
“I am burning with desire,” he said in a low voice. “Oh, Frederica, you do not know how utterly seductive, adorable, and lovable you look at this moment.”
He swept her into his arms and bent his mouth to hers.
For at least half an hour the tremendous passion which consumed them both was a little assuaged by kissing and kissing as if they would never stop. Lips burned against lips, body fused against body, arms clutched, and hands explored.
Miss Manson crouched outside the door with her ear to the keyhole.
“I love you, Freddie,” said the earl, freeing his mouth.
Miss Manson gave a little sigh of relief and unlocked the door. The earl heard the key click in the lock but made no move to release his hold on Freddie.
“When did you know you loved me?” asked Freddie.
“Only just now, but I think I must have loved you the first time I saw you and did not know it. Do you mind my calling you Freddie? It’s an odd name for a girl, but I always think of you as Freddie; willful, adorable, and very dear.”
“Kiss me again,” murmured Freddie. “And you can call me anything you please. I love you so much.”
“I am afraid of frightening you,” he said gently. “I am afraid your grandfather has given you a disgust of… certain intimacies.”
“Like this,” whispered Freddie, sliding her hand inside his dressing gown and caressing his chest.
Another hectic half hour passed until the earl, looking tenderly down at her, traced the line of her bruised and swollen lips with his fingertip.
“No,” he said softly as Freddie looked hopefully towards the bed.
“No?”
“No,” he repeated firmly, trapping one of her wandering hands. “We can wait until our wedding night. We will be married very soon and not in any havey-cavey manner but with the whole of London to see us.”
“Oh, Augustus, since we are to be married in any case—”
“No, my wanton. And since the crafty Miss Manson unlocked the door some time ago, having achieved what she set out to achieve, I think we should get dressed and go out and enjoy the sunshine.”
“Clever Miss Manson,” murmured Freddie. “This is the second time she has come to my rescue.”
“Oh, I would have come to my senses sooner or later.”
“But perhaps too late.” Freddie grinned. “I was going to run away.”
“I would have found you, and punished you.”
“Punished me? You would beat me?”
“I would kiss you, quite fiercely, here… and here… and here.”
Miss Manson paced up and down the hall below, clutching and unclutching her hands. Any minute now the earl would descend with the awful news of her dismissal. She now felt sure he would never forgive such impertinence.
But at least she had a clear conscience. She had done something courageous. She had helped Freddie as much as she could, even though she had realized at the last moment that the outcome might mean happiness for Freddie but would certainly mean the end of her job as Freddie’s companion.
Miss Manson glanced at the clock and wrung her hands. It was now nearing five. Soon the servants would be home, and she did not want them to be witness to the terrible row that the earl was sure to give her.
Then she heard steps on the landing above. This was it. She bent her head submissively and waited for the axe to fall.
“My dear Miss Manson,” came the earl’s light, amused voice. “We are going out driving, and how can you possibly come with us and chaperone my ward while you do not even have a bonnet on?”
Miss Manson looked up. The earl and Freddie were standing with their arms linked, dressed to go out. Freddie’s face was blazing with love and happiness, and the earl raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
“Well, Miss Manson,” he said gently. “We are waiting.”
“Oh, yes,” gabbled Miss Manson gratefully. “Very good, my lord. Certainly, my lord. I will be with you directly. I will fetch my bonnet and cloak and…”
She ran headlong for the stairs, tripping and stumbling in her haste.
&nb
sp; “Poor woman,” said Freddie. “You must not be angry with her.”
“Nobody could make my angry today. I love the whole world.”
Freddie stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on the end of his nose. “No, you don’t,” she said. “You love only me, and I won’t allow another woman within a yard of you, except Miss Manson.”
“Who knows? I may develop a mad passion for Miss Manson.”
“Oh, Augustus, kiss me again.”
Miss Manson stood on the landing, clutching her gloves and turning pink with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. Then she coughed loudly and went down the stairs. Miss Manson was going to have to perfect that fake cough. It would be needed many times in the days to come.
And so they were married, one month later, with great pomp and circumstance in St. George’s Hanover Square.
They returned to the townhouse in Berkeley Square, and Freddie soon had her final lesson in the facts of life, the start of a long and pleasurable schooling.
As she lay warm and content in his arms after a tumultuous night, hearing the sparrows squabbling in the gutters and the hoarse cry of the watch, Freddie murmured languidly, “It has all turned out so beautifully. I wish everyone in the world were as happy as I, except Lady Rennenord and those two Hope sisters, and let us not forget Captain Cramble.”
“They’ll get their comeuppance,” said the earl sleepily. “Villains don’t escape forever.” She stirred against him, and he looked down at her with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “What’s this, my sweeting? Wouldst die of passion?”
“Why not?” demanded the countess of Berham.
“Why not, indeed?” said the earl of Berham, sliding her nightgown down over her shoulders.
Captain Cramble was already dead. He had contracted an inflammation of the lungs after being drenched in the storm.
The two Hope sisters had set sail for America after a weary journey on foot to Dover.
Penniless and destitute, they had arrived at Dover, where a very kind gentleman had taken them under his wing. He knew the captain of a vessel bound for the New World, he had said. The good captain would give them free passage, and he would arrange for them to be met at the other side.