Endearing Young Charms Series

by M. C. Beaton

  “Like a son?”

  “Hardly, Charles. They are about the same age, are they not?”

  “Don’t start matchmaking, puss. Tommy is a confirmed old bachelor if ever there was one. Does London life suit you?”

  “Oh, so very much. I am very happy, Charles.” She reached up, wound her arms around his neck, and gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek. He could feel the swell of her breasts pressed against his arm and the faint scent of flower perfume from her hair.

  “Good.” He gently disengaged himself. “Get some sleep, Fanny, or you will never be fit for all the racketing around that Miss Grimes no doubt has in store for us.”

  He rose and left the room. Silly Fanny, he thought as he finally stretched out in bed and prepared to sleep. But he lay with one hand gently across his cheek, as if protecting the mark of the kiss she had given him.

  The following morning, Miss Grimes was thrown into a flurry by the arrival of a letter by hand from Lord Bohun. In it he said he wished to call on her that afternoon.

  She flew to Charles’s room and shook him awake. He read the letter with an impassive face and then said, “It probably only means he wishes to ask your permission to take Fanny driving again. Make sure the expedition is no further than Hyde Park this time.”

  “Oh, I shall! But this letter! Do you not think he wishes to pay his address to Fanny? And do you not think he is the kind of man to be quite furious when he finds out she is already married? I mean, he has only both your word for it that Fanny is still a virgin.” Miss Grimes blushed. “She is still a virgin, is she not?”

  “Of course,” said Sir Charles haughtily. “It’s just that … well, despite all my strictures, you do seem to run in and out of each others’ bedrooms at all times of the night. Servants will talk, you know.”

  “We are like brother and sister, I assure you. No need to worry about Bohun. He does not have marriage in mind.”

  Feeling more at ease, Miss Grimes then went along to Fanny’s room to inform her sleepy charge that Bohun was to call that afternoon, no doubt to ask permission to take Fanny driving.

  Captain Tommy, when he rose, also studied the letter but could not share his friend, Sir Charles’s, optimism. “The trouble is,” he said, shaking his head, “that Charles hasn’t seemed to have noticed that Fanny is a deuced pretty girl. But talk about not noticing what’s right under your nose …”

  “Exactly,” agreed Miss Grimes in a hollow voice. She felt like jumping up and down and shouting, I am under your nose!

  She tried to calm her mind as the hour of Lord Bohun’s arrival approached. Admittedly the man had an unsavory reputation, but then so had most unmarried men on the London scene. He was rich and he was titled—and he was probably genuinely in love with Fanny. She should not be so much against him, whatever Charles said.

  “You’d best see him alone,” said Tommy. “I can’t bear the fellow, and I can’t help letting it show.”

  So capped and gowned like the most respectable of dowagers, Miss Grimes sat by the crackling fire, which had just been lit, for the day was cold, and waited for Lord Bohun.

  When he actually arrived, she could feel her fears melting away. He was undoubtedly a very handsome man and dressed in Weston’s finest tailoring, from his blue swallowtail coat to his glossy Hessian boots.

  “Pray be seated, Lord Bohun,” said Miss Grimes, “and tell me the reason for your call.”

  “I wish to ask leave to pay my addresses to Miss Page.”

  Although she realized she had been half expecting this while waiting for him to arrive, it still came as a shock to Miss Grimes. She studied him narrowly, but there was nothing in his eyes but a sort of anxious respect.

  She found her voice. “I do not need to ask you if you are in funds, Lord Bohun,” she said, “so there is no question of your being unable to support Miss Page. On the other hand, you are an … er … experienced man and Fanny is very young and naive.”

  “I am aware of that, madam. Miss Page will experience nothing more at my hands during our courtship than kindness and courtesy.”

  “I should expect no less.” Rain clouds were gathering outside and the room grew suddenly dark. A log fell in the fire and a tall flame shot up, the red light shining on Lord Bohun’s face, making his eyes glitter with a red light. Miss Grimes rang the bell and asked the servant to light the lamps and candles. The pair sat in silence until the room was illumined in a soft glow and the servant had retired.

  “I think it would be better,” said Miss Grimes cautiously, “if I gave you permission to court Fanny … but beg of you to leave any formal engagement notice aside until you are both sure of your feelings and sure that you would suit. That is the best I can offer you at the moment.”

  He bowed his dark head. “You are most kind.”

  “Very well.” She rang the bell again and asked the servant to send Miss Page in.

  Fanny arrived so promptly that Miss Grimes was sure she must have been waiting on the landing outside the drawing room. She was dressed in a carriage gown of blue velvet with a naughty little hat like a man’s high crowned one tipped rakishly sideways on her curls. Miss Grimes knew that Fanny’s wardrobe had come from the hands of a village dressmaker, but that the girl had cleverly altered everything to a more modish line—so successfully, thought Miss Grimes, that it was a pity she did not decide to go into trade and set up in business. And that showed how low the spinster’s thoughts had sunk, that she could even contemplate the idea of Fanny going into trade.

  “My dear,” said Miss Grimes in a rather stifled voice, “Lord Bohun has asked my permission to pay his addresses to you. I have given that permission—with the stipulation that no formal announcement of your engagement should be made until you get to know each other a little better.” At this point, as Miss Grimes gloomily looked at Fanny’s radiant face, she felt she should raise her hands and give the couple her blessing but found she could not.

  “I shall leave you alone for a few moments.” She went out but left the door open.

  Fanny smiled shyly at Lord Bohun. He took her hand and sank to one knee in front of her. There was an ominous creak from his corsets, but Fanny did not appear to have heard it. “My heart,” he said, “will you do me the honor of giving me this little hand in marriage?”

  And just as Sir Charles walked into the room, Fanny smiled tenderly down at Lord Bohun’s bent head and whispered, “Yes … oh, yes.”

  Chapter 7

  LORD BOHUN ROSE to his feet but kept hold of Fanny’s hand. “Congratulate me, Deveney,” he said.

  Sir Charles’s eyes flew to meet Fanny’s. “Is this true?”

  “Yes, it is true. And I am so very happy, Charles.”

  Misery on misery, he thought bleakly. What could he say? Miss Grimes had obviously given her permission. He could hardly protest, How dare you court my wife?

  Lord Bohun’s eyes held a mocking light. “Well, Deveney, aren’t you going to give us your blessing?”

  “Not at the moment,” he said, and Fanny threw him a hurt and reproachful look. “I will see how things go,” he added in a milder tone. “We have never been friends, Bohun, so that is the best I can find to say at the moment.”

  To Lord Bohun’s intense irritation, Sir Charles crossed to the fireplace. He was obviously not going to be allowed any time alone with Fanny.

  Then Miss Grimes came in, followed by Tommy. There was a long silence, during which Tommy, Miss Grimes, and Sir Charles surveyed Fanny and Lord Bohun.

  “Perhaps Miss Page will come driving with me,” said Lord Bohun.

  “But it is a dreadful day,” protested Miss Grimes.

  “Not now. It’s turned out splendid.”

  And sure enough, the fickle English weather had changed again and pale sunlight flooded the room, bleaching the flames in the fireplace.

  “There you are,” said Fanny tartly. “The sun shines on our engagement, if you do not.” She tripped out of the room, followed by Lord Bohun.
r />   Sir Charles sat down suddenly.

  “I say,” said Tommy, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe Bohun ain’t that bad. I mean, rape was never proved against him.”

  “Rape!” screamed Miss Grimes.

  “There was an incident with a Spanish woman,” Sir Charles said, sighing. “She claimed that Bohun had raped her. I had the whole matter investigated. With drunken British soldiers raping nuns in convents, my fellow officers felt I was going too far in chasing Bohun. But on the day the woman was to report to me with her evidence, she disappeared. Several evil-looking louts from the village we were billeted in testified with amazing alacrity to the fact that the woman was a whore. I did not know much Spanish then; but I knew enough to be sure that they were lying. Other people in the village who had not come forward subsequently told me she was a respectable widow. But without the woman herself, there was nothing I could do.”

  Miss Grimes was aghast. “Did you tell Fanny this?”

  “I could not, as nothing had been proved against Bohun. Therefore she has only my word against his, my unsubstantiated word. And would she believe me? Of course not. She dotes on the man. But she has not yet had time to get to know him. Let us pray she does, or I must seriously think about trying to stop this marriage.”

  The butler entered. “Mrs. Woodward and Miss Woodward,” he announced.

  “We are not at home,” said Sir Charles, without looking round.

  “But Charles,” protested Miss Grimes, “that is a most dreadful snub. Has anything happened?”

  He collected himself with an obvious effort. “This engagement of Fanny’s has upset me. Show them up, Hoskins.”

  Miss Grimes reflected sourly that Amanda Woodward was indeed a shiner. Her beauty lit up the room. Her manner and bearing were faultless. She smiled on Sir Charles with great sweetness. Miss Grimes noticed that although Charles smiled back and was very attentive to both Miss Woodward and her mother, he seemed to be acting a part. And all Mrs. Woodward’s hints that the day had turned fine and that Amanda was “pining” for a drive in the Park appeared to fall on deaf ears.

  She was relieved when the couple left. “You were a trifle chilly, Charles,” she commented.

  But Sir Charles was not going to betray that his infatuation for Amanda Woodward was at an end. He still felt ashamed that he had been so easily gulled.

  “My heart,” Lord Bohun was saying, “we should not inflict a long engagement on each other. So old-fashioned. I cannot believe you have come to love me.”

  And guileless Fanny smiled up at him with her heart in her eyes and said, “I loved you before I even met you.”

  He laughed. “How can that be?”

  “You will find this hard to believe. I saw your portrait.”

  “Which portrait. Where?”

  “Sir Charles’s parents have a portrait of you. I do not know how they came by it. You are on a charger on the battlefield. Most romantic.”

  “I commissioned that portrait in Spain,” he said sharply, “and shipped it home. But my agent informed me that it had been stolen by footpads.”

  Fanny groaned inwardly. She had forgotten for the moment that her perfidious in-laws had pretended that the portrait was of Sir Charles.

  “Actually,” she said quickly, “it was not a portrait of you at all, but of someone entirely different, but so very like you all the same. Oh, do look. What a quiz of a bonnet!”

  A less devious man would have pursued the subject, would have questioned her more closely about that painting, but he remembered in a flash all the peculiar stories he had heard about Deveney’s parents. If he could prove they themselves had stolen his portrait, then that, by association, would discredit Sir Charles in Fanny’s eyes. So he laughed and agreed the bonnet was quite dreadful and then talked of this and that.

  “So we are to attend the Hardys’ musicale tomorrow evening,” said Fanny at last. “Will you be there?”

  “Alas, I must live without you for a few days. I have business on my estates to attend to,” said Lord Bohun. “I shall think of you every moment I am away.”

  As soon as he had bidden a fond farewell to her, he returned to his town house and found the preliminary sketches for that portrait, including a letter of agreement from the Spanish artist, and then sent his man out to find out where Sir Charles Deveney’s home lay.

  By morning, while Fanny still lay asleep, Lord Bohun was already thundering out on the Great Western Road in the direction of Oxfordshire.

  He found that Sir Charles’s home had been let to an American couple, a Mr. Seaton and his wife, who were fortunately at home and pleased to receive him. He was glad he had not professed to be a friend of Squire Deveney’s, for Mr. Seaton began to complain almost immediately that he had been tricked, that the hall was neither as well appointed or grand as he had been led to believe in an exchange of letters, but that he and his wife had been billeted in an uncomfortable London hotel and too anxious for country air to look into the matter as thoroughly as they should. The place was threadbare and the furniture shoddy, said Mr. Seaton. It was furthermore ill-staffed and the tenants on the estates badly housed. It was all very well to say that as only a temporary occupant he should ignore such tiresome things as leaky roofs and high rents but he could not. He was an American and did not hold with people being treated like animals, raged Mr. Seaton, the fact that he employed slave labor on his plantation in Virginia seeming not to count.

  Having agreed with every word his host said—and having exercised his charm on the dumpy Mrs. Seaton—Lord Bohun shook his head sadly and said he had worse to tell them. It was his belief that Squire Deveney was nothing more than a common thief. While they exclaimed in horror, he produced the sketches and the artist’s letter, saying if they did not believe him, he would have the letter translated for them at his own expense, but that he believed Squire Deveney had come by a stolen portrait.

  “I don’t think I have seen anything like that here,” said Mr. Seaton.

  “Let me see.” His wife looked over his shoulder. “I know that painting,” she exclaimed. “It is in the attics.” She rang the bell, and, when a footman answered, said, “Go up to the attics, John, the one with the broken furniture. You will find a painting, quite large, wrapped up in a cloth just behind the door on the left-hand side.”

  “There you are!” said Mr. Seaton triumphantly. “Now you can prosecute that rogue, Deveney, for holding stolen goods.”

  “I am afraid I cannot,” said Lord Bohun. “I am engaged to Sir Charles Deveney’s cousin, Miss Page.”

  “Any relation to the Pages of Delfton Hall?”

  “Probably.”

  “Must be another daughter,” said Mrs. Seaton.

  The portrait was carried in and unveiled. Lord Bohun looked at it with satisfaction. “I am so pleased to have my property back. If you would be so good as to ask your man to put it in my carriage …”

  He rose and bowed. He was making his way out when he suddenly stopped and stood stock still. He swung round. “Why did you say about the Pages, it must be another daughter?”

  “I heard talk in the village that Sir Charles Deveney, the son, that is—who, by the way, is highly regarded—married a Miss Page. But mind you, it is not an uncommon name.”

  Lord Bohun smiled wolfishly. “No, I am sure we must be thinking of some other family. Good day to you. Oh, by the way, your Pages, where do they live?”

  “Over at Delfton Hall. You go to the crossroads and take the Banbury Road for three miles. You will see the gate posts topped with griffins.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed again.

  He directed his coachman to Delfton Hall and then sat back, his mind racing. What was going on? Could it possibly be that the puritanical Sir Charles was actually tricking London society and passing Fanny off as his cousin?

  He shook his head. Fanny was sweetness itself and would not be party to any deception. Still, it would do no harm to call at Delfton Hall.

  Another shabby residence, he th
ought as his carriage swung round in front of the hall. The gardens, which consisted of shaggy lawns, had a neglected air.

  A trim maid took his card and asked him to wait. She returned and ushered him through to a long saloon on the ground floor.

  A gentleman rose at his entrance.

  Lord Bohun strode forward. “Mr. Page?”

  “The servant should have told you, my lord. I am Mr. Robinson. I rent this place from the Pages.”

  “Ah, but perhaps you can tell me about the family?”

  “I cannot help you much there. You should ask the vicar. I did not actually meet them. My man of business arranged the rental of this house. We were anxious to move south from Northumberland, for my son is at Oxford University and I am afraid my wife dotes on the boy and cannot bear to be too far from him. The house is neither as comfortable nor well staffed as my agent was led to believe, although there is an excellent cook. Of course, Mrs. Friendly, the cook, will know about the Pages. Would you like to speak to her?”

  “Thank you.”

  Lord Bohun conversed amiably while waiting for the cook. He was feeling more confident now. He, who was so used to tricking people, could not believe he had been tricked himself.

  Mrs. Friendly entered the room. “Ah, here you are,” said Mr. Robinson. “This is Lord Bohun, who has an interest in the Pages.”

  The cook eyed the tall lord and did not like what she saw. Her usually open and cheerful face took on a shuttered look. She was loyal to the feckless Pages and had been used to the wiles of duns, who often had tried to masquerade as visitors in the past, although none had been so impertinent as to impersonate a lord.

  “I have friends in London,” said Lord Bohun. “Sir Charles Deveney and his cousin, Miss Fanny Page.”

  Goodness, thought Mrs. Friendly, what are they up to? “The people who rent the Deveneys’ place inform me that Sir Charles married a Miss Page … but yet he is courting a certain Miss Woodward in London—and Miss Fanny Page is affianced to me, so I find it hard to believe.”