Cygnet

by Hiatt, Brenda

  Beata soothed and shushed before going over the details Deirdre had just related. "You say Lord Wrotham is a devotee of poetry after all?" she asked.

  "That is what Lord Ellerby implied," said Deirdre with just the slightest sniff. She had managed, through valiant effort, not to cry.

  "Perhaps there is no difficulty then," suggested Beata after a moment's thought. "You do not actually know that Wrotham's absence has anything to do with you. It is possible he called that morning simply to tell you he was going out of Town, but your exquisite verse drove it from his mind temporarily. I recommend you do not despair until you have actually seen him. Then you can fall on his neck and confess everything, begging him prettily to forgive you."

  Despite herself, Deirdre giggled at Beata's words.

  "That's better," said her sister bracingly. "Now, I want you to promise me you'll wear your loveliest gown for your ball tomorrow night. Beautiful clothes can do wonders for the spirits."

  Deirdre had to admit to the truth of this, for her spirits during the past two days, when she had been back in her dull things, had certainly been abysmal. Besides, she had already promised Celeste. Brightening as she always did after a talk with her sensible older sister, Deirdre went to strike up a conversation with Julia Heatherton.

  * * *

  It was gone dinnertime when Lord Wrotham arrived back at Berkeley Square. He had spent an enjoyable day at Rose Manor, where he and his host had talked far into the night on various subjects, scholarly and otherwise. They had found they had much in common and enjoyed their time together immensely.

  The Marquis had accepted his host's invitation to stay the night, and had been privileged to meet Deirdre's two younger sisters over a leisurely breakfast in the morning. Elise reminded him forcefully of Celeste and Lady Thumble, but the quieter Faith was charming, and eager to know all he could tell her of her Deirdre.

  He smiled, remembering her delight at her favourite sister's "fame and fortune" at having a poem published. He had also been able to glean, from references Faith had made about Deirdre's letters, that his case was by no means hopeless, and his fear of a rival completely unfounded. He and Deirdre would have her often to visit them after they were married, he decided. Engaged in such happy thoughts, he was unprepared for the mournful face of Bigby, who opened the door as he mounted the steps.

  "Egad, man, has there been a death in the family?" he asked in some concern. His butler was never known for his cheerful countenance, but he was looking several shades more doleful than usual.

  "No, my lord. Everything is well," he replied hesitantly, which was also unusual for the man.

  "The devil you say! Come, Bigby, out with it! What has you in the dismals?"

  Bigby winced at his master's phrasing, but answered readily enough. "You will recall, my lord, that before you left on Friday you asked that I set Hodge to keep an eye on a certain Mr. Flinder?"

  Wrotham nodded. Actually, he had all but forgotten it, pleasurably distracted as he had been by his discoveries about Deirdre and her family, but he quickly recalled his orders. "You discovered something?" he prompted the butler.

  "Indeed, my lord. It would seem that your Mr. Flinder has a frequent visitor to his lodgings, one well known to your lordship."

  Wrotham's heart contracted painfully. Deirdre! Was she actually carrying on an affair with that blackguard Flinder? He would never have believed it of her. He would kill the man; kill them both! "Oh?" he asked, amazing himself with the calmness of his voice.

  "Yes, my lord," continued Bigby with increasing concern. He had not missed the sudden whiteness about Lord Wrotham's mouth and eyes. "It appears he is closely associated with your cousin, Mr. Myron Gates."

  For a moment, Wrotham did not comprehend; when he did, his relief was so great that he felt almost lightheaded. Bigby, who had apparently braced himself for the outburst sure to follow this intelligence, seemed flabbergasted when the Marquis began to laugh.

  "Myron?" he gasped after a moment. "It is Myron who has been visiting Mr. Flinder? That— that is most interesting, Bigby." His eyes were still dancing when he realized that his butler was regarding him as if he had gone abruptly mad. "I apologize, Bigby," he said in a more normal tone. "I have ridden all day and am famished, as well as fatigued. That was not quite the news I expected, and it took me off my guard."

  "Will you be wishing to go out then, my lord?" asked Bigby, once more his unperturbable self.

  "No, not tonight. Have Cook put something together for me; nothing fancy, but quick and filling. Then I believe I'll early to bed. No doubt I'll be better able to consider this... unexpected development in the morning."

  "Very well, my lord." Bigby went to do the Marquis's bidding, his impassive expression masking the raging curiosity he felt. Who had his lordship expected to visit Mr. Flinder? He was destined never to know.

  * * *

  In the morning, much refreshed after a good night's sleep, Wrotham felt ready to consider the day ahead. He would call on Deirdre, of course, and finally make the offer he had intended to make last week. Only if she hesitated would he reveal that he had already called on her father and received his consent. However, he did not think she would be unwilling. According to Bigby, Flinder had not been near her for the past three days, so it seemed unlikely that any attachment lay in that direction.

  The thought of Mr. Flinder brought to mind the interesting news Bigby had told him the night before. This friendship between Myron and Flinder was of fairly recent origin, and might bear looking into. Perhaps the two men had discovered a certain compatibility due to a similarity in age, style of dress and foolishness, the latter of which both no doubt possessed in abundance; but it might be something else entirely. Yes, it would definitely bear looking into.

  Accordingly, after a large breakfast in his rooms, Wrotham dressed with more than his usual care, mindful that his cousin was easily intimidated by appearance, and set out to pay the inimitable Mr. Gates a call.

  Normally, Lord Wrotham might have walked the distance, less than a mile, to Myron's lodgings, but instead he elected to take his crested carriage, the one with the gold trim. He rarely used that carriage, commissioned by his mother many years ago, for it was too ostentatious for his tastes; just now, however, it seemed appropriate.

  The lodging house where Myron lived was more run down than he remembered. Dirty children played about an equally dirty stoop, and the door looked as though it had not been painted in years. Wrotham rapped with the tarnished brass knocker and was answered by a slovenly woman with greasy black curls. Her eyes widened at the sight of the Marquis and the elegant carriage behind him in the street, and she quickly ushered him up the stairs to Mr. Gates's room.

  "Visitor for ye, Myron," she rasped, tapping at the door. "A real swell!" The door opened slowly and, with a final awed glance, the woman retreated down the stairs.

  "Ed! What— what a surprise!" exclaimed Myron, palpably nervous. "Whatever can bring you to this part of Town?"

  "Why, I came to call upon you, Myron, what else?" said Wrotham languidly. "May I come in?"

  "Of—of course! That is... I wasn't exactly expecting you." He stepped back, allowing the Marquis to move past him into the squalid little room. It looked as though Myron had not expected visitors for months. Preferring to spend as little time as possible in such surroundings, Wrotham came directly to the point.

  "Myron, I understand you and a Mr. Flinder have been quite thick of late. Would you care to elaborate for me?" He hoped, by avoiding specific questions, to glean more information than he might otherwise. He was not disappointed.

  "My God! I knew you'd find out! Jonas is such a ninnyhammer, he no doubt left clues enough for a blind man to follow. I tried to talk him out of it, Ed, you must believe me!"

  Lord Wrotham began to seat himself but, on closer examination of the chair's surface, reconsidered. Instead, he leaned against the wall and folded his arms, looking down his aristocratic nose at his cousin, whose paunch had begun
to shake like so much jelly. "And why is he so set on this course?" he enquired, as though he knew all.

  "Dash it, I don't know! I suppose he loves the girl, though half the time he talks as though he hates her instead. He's jealous of her poetry, I know, and thinks if he marries her he can pass it off as his own. But if she has half a brain in her head, she'll escape before ever they reach the border, the way he's planned it!" Wrotham straightened abruptly. This was more serious than he had suspected. "I want all the details, Myron, and I want them now. Else, I'll consider you a full accomplice."

  That was more than enough for the quaking Myron, who immediately told all he knew of Flinder's contemplated abduction of Miss Wheaton: time, place, route, everything. As he absorbed the details, Wrotham began to smile.

  "Myron, not a word to anyone of my visit here or of what you have told me, particularly to Flinder, and there will be twenty pounds in it for you. If Flinder calls, you are not in. Do you understand?"

  He did not, but twenty pounds was twenty pounds. Myron nodded.

  "Very well. You can trust me to handle it from here." Chuckling, Lord Wrotham departed, his step light.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 16

  Penrose House reminded Deirdre of a lunatic asylum, with servants scurrying frantically about in an effort to fulfill all of Celeste's and Lady Penrose's orders in preparation for the ball to be held there that evening. Flowers and greenery had begun arriving shortly after breakfast to be placed about as decorations and just before nuncheon a remarkable miniature marble fountain was delivered for the front hall.

  Celeste darted enthusiastically from room to room, hindering rather than helping the preparations and chattering non-stop. Silver was being polished and repolished at a great rate, as were the banisters and every stick of furniture in the house. When the caterers arrived with box after box of lobster patties and pastry puffs, Deirdre felt she had had all she could endure.

  "Mama, would you mind terribly if I took a walk for an hour or so?" she asked the distracted Baroness. "I shall bring Marie along and be back in plenty of time to change for dinner."

  "Why, I suppose not, dear," replied her mother absently. "No, no!" She rounded on a hapless footman trying unsuccessfully to place a wreath in the exact spot she had ordered. "Halfway between those two columns, there!"

  Deirdre hurried up the stairs to fetch her pelisse and Marie, only to find that the latter had been pressed into service by Celeste, sewing onto her ball gown the sequins she had decided at the last minute she must have.

  "I'll scarce have time to finish as it is, Miss Didi," said Marie plaintively when Deirdre told her what she had in mind. "Best you ask someone else. If only Miss Celeste had told me yesterday she wanted these sparklers, I could've done it last night, easy!" She continued stitching madly. Deirdre was half tempted to help her, but suspected she would only be in the way.

  There had still been no word from Lord Wrotham; no evidence, in fact, that he had yet returned to Town. A huge corsage of lilies had arrived from Mr. Flinder, however, which rather surprised Deirdre after the way in which they had last parted. She had hoped that he would refrain from attending, but feared now that he intended to appear after all. Celeste would never forgive her if he made a scene.

  Re-emerging from her room, Deirdre looked about at the bustle of activity. Celeste's voice floated up from below: "Why, Mama! These hyacinths will just match the trim on my gown. How clever of you! Charles will be charmed." Deirdre had to escape, if only for a few minutes. No one would notice if she went out alone, not today.

  Just as she slipped out of the front door, however, a large travelling carriage pulled up before the house. Thinking it to be yet another delivery, Deirdre ducked her head to hurry past when a familiar voice called her name.

  "Didi! Miss Wheaton!"

  She turned back resignedly. "Yes, Jonas, what is it?" It looked as if she would not have her walk after all. Perhaps she could shake him quickly; he looked (and sounded) as though he had been drinking again.

  "I come with a message from Mrs. Jameson," he replied, gaining her full attention. "She wishes to speak to you immediately on a matter of some importance. I met her shopping on Bond Street and she asked if I would be so kind as to convey you to her house, as I was already out in my carriage. Will you come?" He spoke as though reciting a rehearsed speech, but Deirdre attributed that to the alcohol in his system. At least he was not driving the coach himself.

  "Why... I suppose so," she replied uncertainly, wondering what Beata could have to say to her that could not wait the few hours until the ball. Might it have something to do with Lord Wrotham? That must be it! Beata had had some word about him, and wished to pass it on to her. It did not occur to Deirdre how odd it was that Beata should have asked Mr. Flinder to bring her. Moving quickly now, she climbed into the coach as Jonas held the door for her. The coachman on top stared impassively forward.

  The first thing Deirdre noticed upon entering the coach was the overpowering scent of lilies. Looking about her, she saw piles of them banked along the walls of the coach like drifts of snow. "Are you going into business as an undertaker, Jonas?" she asked as he seated himself next to her and closed the door. The coach lurched forward as he answered.

  "Do you not like lilies, my darling?" he asked, gesturing around the interior of the coach. "They are fair and sweet, as are you."

  She was certain now that he was foxed. "I am not your darling, Jonas," she said severely. "And why should you have obtained them for me, if you did not know I would be riding with you until you saw Beata?"

  Jonas appeared suddenly concerned. "I—I did not, of course," he stammered, as though trying to put her at ease. "I was merely delivering them for a friend."

  "Oh?" asked Deirdre, thinking of the hundreds of flowers already brought in for their own ball. "Is there another ball tonight, then?"

  "Ball?" repeated Jonas blankly. "Oh, of course. I mean yes, my... my friend is also having a ball tonight."

  Deirdre regarded him strangely. There seemed more afoot here than a simple over-indulgence of spirits. "Jonas, I believe I would prefer to take a hack to Beata's, if you don't mind," she said decisively. "You may let me out here." She glanced out of the window as she spoke, suddenly realizing with alarm what she should have noticed sooner: they were no longer in Mayfair, but were rapidly travelling out of London.

  "Where are you taking me, Jonas?" she asked sharply when he made no response to her previous request. "What on earth is going on? Take me to Beata's at once!"

  "I'm rather afraid that is out of the question," said Jonas apologetically. "You see, she wouldn't be expecting you just yet."

  "Just yet? You mean at all, don't you?" demanded Deirdre. "You made up that story about Beata just to get me into your coach, did you not? Have you lost your wits?" She was angry, but not yet afraid; she could not believe that Jonas meant her any harm. She would simply talk reasonably to him and persuade him to return her to Penrose House.

  "You are on to me, I see," he said with a faint smile. "Yes, I have lost my wits; I lost them the moment I laid eyes on you, my beautiful Deirdre. I have come to realize that I cannot live without you, and that you would be desperately unhappy without me. Therefore, I have decided to do what is best for us both. We shall arrive in Scotland in a few days, where we can be married. Are you not happy, my sweet?"

  Deirdre's mouth dropped open at Jonas's revelation. "Married?" she repeated in a strangled voice.

  "Of course," he replied, smiling. "I know you were not yourself when you refused me. You could not help but be happy with me, someone who shares your devotion to poetry. That must be obvious."

  She looked at him incredulously. Had he actually deluded himself to this extent? He seemed truly to expect her to be pleased at her abduction. If he were mad, as appeared likely, there was no telling what he might do if she shattered his illusions too abruptly. Perhaps it would be safest to play along for the moment, at least until she knew exactly what he planned. />
  "Where... where do you intend us to spend the night, Jonas?" she asked carefully. "Surely you do not expect me to stay unaccompanied with you at some inn before we are wed?"

  He sighed. "I feared you would see it that way, but we have little alternative. I have arranged for separate rooms at the Silver Swan, but that is the best I can do. Does it matter so much, when we will be spending our lives together?" he asked wistfully.

  Deirdre attempted a smile. "The scent of these lilies is rather... potent, Jonas," she said, changing the subject. "Might we open the windows a bit?"

  He seemed to see nothing unusual in her request and did as she bid. Deirdre was now able to see that they were already out of London, presumably on the Great North Road to Scotland. How long would it be before someone at home noticed that she was missing? Remembering the confusion there, she knew that neither her mother nor Celeste was likely to look for her before dinner. By then, they would be miles ahead of any pursuit. She would just have to effect her own rescue, she decided.

  "Would you care for some champagne, to celebrate our escape from the prosaic, mundane world?" asked Jonas at that moment, producing a rather warm bottle from beneath the cushions.

  "No, thank you," said Deirdre with ill-concealed distaste. "But you go right ahead, if you wish."

  Jonas hesitated for only a moment before doing just that. No doubt this abduction business was more unsettling than he had expected it to be, and he felt the need for more fortification. He opened the bottle with some difficulty, narrowly missing his own eye with the cork as it popped. After drinking nearly half the bottle in silence, he became suddenly talkative again.

  "I have written a poem just for you, my darling," he announced importantly. "Would you care to hear it?"

  "If I must," said Deirdre resignedly. Her resolve to play along with him was rapidly evaporating. She simply had to escape soon!