The Ruby Pendant

by Mary Nichols

  Her whole being was filled with the conversation she had overheard. None of it made sense. Her mother had been concerned about the truth. What truth? She could not rest nor choose a husband until she knew what it was.

  Lady Martindale was indisposed the following morning and it was left to Juliette, chaperoned by Anne, to entertain their callers. There were a great many and she was sure they came as a result of the Countess's remarks about Mr Devonshire, hoping to find out more. It was all she could do to be polite to them. And then the gentleman himself arrived. He had come, he said, to speak to his lordship, but the Viscount had gone to Horse Guards and was not expected back until the afternoon and she had perforce to invite him to join them.

  He was soon chatting amiably with all her mother's friends, making them laugh with his wit, until he had won them all over. By the time he took his leave, everyone was convinced that the Countess of Wentworth would one day be cut by her own tongue and you did not need a title to be a true gentleman. Juliette, catching his eye, knew with certainty that he was doing it for her benefit and was grateful.

  `Thank you,' she said, as she accompanied him to the door when he took his leave. 'I truly could not handle them all at once.'

  `It seemed to me you were handling them very well, Miss Martindale.' He paused as if considering something, then added, 'But if you really wish to thank me, perhaps you would come riding with me one morning. You do ride, do you not?'

  `Oh, yes. I ride most mornings when I am at Hartlea. I have a mare in the stables here - not my usual mount, because he is a little spirited for town, but she goes well enough.'

  `Then tomorrow morning. At ten, shall we say?'

  It was very early, but she decided there was no harm in agreeing, so long as Thomas, one of the grooms, accompanied her. 'I shall look forward to it.' Which was nothing less than the truth.

  She decided to forget all the gossip and intrigue, forget why she had been hurried pell-mell to London and was supposed to be choosing a lifelong partner, and enjoy the ride for what it was, a chance to fill her lungs with fresh air, to see the park from a different perspective and exercise her horse at the same time. She chose to ignore the fact that her companion was the subject of gossip. Her father did not think it mattered, and that was good enough for her.

  And she was beginning to revise her opinion of him. He was not the boring uncle she had described to her mother; the frisson of excitement she felt whenever he was near could never be attributed to an uncle, or indeed to any relation. It was something that struck at the very core of her, made her feel more alive, aware of him as a man. It was as if they had always known each other and the thought of seeing him and being in his company filled her with happy anticipation.

  He called at exactly ten. She was ready and dressed in a dark blue riding habit that set off her shining silvery hair and clear complexion. He was put in mind of the contrast of the moon against the night sky and felt a kind of glow inside him, which he refused to recognise as anything more than pride to have such a beauty at his side. And she rode with an easy grace as they walked their horses along Park Lane and in at the Cumberland Gate, with her groom just behind.

  For the first time in his life Philip found himself tongue-tied. Given something specific to do - an order from Lord Martindale, a game to win, a fox to hunt, even a room full of babbling ladies to entertain, he knew exactly what was expected of him and he did it with confidence, but now he was half afraid of saying the wrong thing, of angering her or embarrassing her, of driving her into the arms of someone else, not least her scapegrace cousin. He did not know what it was that attracted him to her. She was very young, possibly too young for a man such as he was, but she had a charisma that was lacking in other young ladies of her age and gentle upbringing. She had character as well as beauty. It was as if she had been touched by tragedy and had become a stronger person because of it. He recognised something of himself in her, a lone spirit, someone with an inner strength who would not allow life's little ironies to subdue her. Which was all palpable nonsense, of course. He had only known her a few weeks, but she had already taken a firm hold on his heart. Not only was she beautiful and delightfully innocent, she was forthright and spirited, thoughtful and intelligent. He had never expected to find all those attributes in one person and having found her, he wanted nothing so much as to hold on to her. He sat there, jogging along the North Ride, thinking how pleasurable it would be to have her in his arms, to kiss her, and a smile played about his lips.

  `Why are you smiling?' she demanded suddenly. 'Have I done something to amuse you?'

  `I beg your pardon.'

  `You were grinning from ear to ear. I should like to share the jest.'

  `I am simply happy,' he said. 'The morning is fine, no hint of rain, and it is good to be alive, to be free, and in such lovely company. What more could anyone ask?'

  `Thank you, kind sir,' she said, laughing. 'But why did you mention freedom? Were you perhaps referring to freedom from the constraints of matrimony?'

  `No, nothing was further from my thoughts.'

  `But you are not married?'

  `Oh, you are referring to that ridiculous piece of tattle about an Indian wife?'

  `You have heard it?'

  `One could hardly fail to hear it; it is all round London.'

  `It is not true?'

  `Pure fabrication, I assure you.'

  `Then why do you not deny it?'

  `It amuses me not to.'

  `Do you not mind that people are telling lies about you?'

  `Not in the least. My friends - my true friends - pay no heed.'

  `And Papa is one of them,' she said, determined to find out all she could. 'But it seems strange to me that you have never visited us at Hartlea, when you have known him so long.'

  `There has been no opportunity. My work never took me in that direction.'

  `Just what is your work?'

  He paused, unable to give her a put-down but struggling with an answer that would satisfy her. 'I work for the War Department, as a kind of commissar, locating supplies, recruiting, that sort of thing.'

  `But you are not a soldier?'

  `No. '

  `Neither is Papa,' she said, accepting his explanation equably. 'But that does not mean his work is not important. It must be the same for you.'

  He let out his breath in relief. He hated deceiving her and yet he could not tell her the truth. Not now. Not until the war was at an end and there was no longer any need for secrecy. And by then it would be too late, she would be married and out of his reach. For the first time he cursed his circumstances and wished wholeheartedly that Lord Martindale had not asked him to accompany his wife and daughter to the ball. Then they would never have met and he would not now be suffering such torment. But if he managed to stop thinking about the possible consequences, the torment was of a pleasurable kind. He ought, of course, to withdraw, to take himself off, but he could not bring himself to do it, to deprive himself of the joy of her company.

  `Tell me about Hartlea,' he said, to change the subject. `You must love it very much.'

  `Of course I do. It is my home, I have known no other and it has always been a happy place.'

  `Tell me about it.'

  `The estate covers a large area, I do not know how many acres, and the house is very substantial. I believe it was given to our ancestors by Cromwell after the Civil War as recompense for the support they gave him. Somehow it avoided being taken back when the monarchy was restored. It has been handed down from father to son ever since...'

  'Only now there is no son.' He spoke quietly, inviting her to go on, to tell him how she felt and she found it surprisingly easy to do that.

  `Yes. It is entailed and will go to Mr Martindale when the time comes.' She felt sad for a moment, then added cheerfully, 'But that will not happen for years and years yet. It is not something that occupies my mind.'

  `No, of course not, but Mr Martindale seems bent on bringing it to the fore.'


  She turned to face him. 'You do not like him, do you?'

  Her bluntness took him by surprise. 'Does it matter whether I like him or not?'

  `No, but I do not like my friends to be at daggers-drawn.'

  `I am flattered to be considered one of your friends, Miss Martindale.'

  She patted the neck of her horse and smiled. `If you wish to stay my friend, you will refrain from quarrelling with Mr Martindale. Papa does not hold a grudge against him in spite of having good reason and he has told me that I may entertain his suit, if I so wish.'

  `And do you wish?'

  His dark eyes were boring into her again, making her squirm in her saddle. She could not look away, could not lie to him, could only feel herself melting inside from the heat in his gaze, so that it took all her concentration to keep her horse steady. 'That is for me to decide, Mr Devonshire.'

  `Of course. But what about others? He cannot be your only admirer.'

  `No, there are dozens of others. I am free to choose.' It sounded like boasting, but she couldn't help it. It was her way of defending herself.

  `Then choose wisely, Miss Martindale, choose wisely.'

  `I may not choose at all. I will not marry for expediency, or for a title or wealth, or even to stay at Hartlea, though I love it dearly. If I cannot marry for love, I will remain unmarried.'

  `I cannot see you staying single for long,' he said softly. 'You would be remarkably easy to fall in love with.'

  She felt the colour flood her face. She had not meant to speak of her private dream of love and marriage, but the words had just come out. His reply had confused her more than ever. What answer could she give to that? `Tell me, Mr Devonshire,' she said, deciding she might as well continue being frank with him; he seemed not to mind. In truth, he was paying careful attention, looking into her eyes as if what she had to say was important to him. 'Has my father encouraged you to offer for me?'

  He was visibly taken aback but then chuckled suddenly. 'He has not spoken to me on the subject.'

  `I am glad of that,' she said, tossing back her head so that the long feather in her tall hat, brushed against her cheek. It was all he could do to refrain from reaching out and stroking it away. 'I should not like you to entertain false hopes.'

  `Oh, you have decided against me without giving me the pleasure of pressing my suit?' He was laughing at her now, his dark eyes full of mischief. 'You know, if you are so blunt to every young man you meet, you will earn yourself a reputation. There will be more gossip, not less.'

  `I don't understand it,' she said, suddenly dropping her bantering tone. 'There is so much going on I do not understand. It is as if some deep dark secret were pressing down on me, something so dreadful it cannot be spoken of. And we left Hartlea so suddenly.'

  `I do believe you have been reading too many Gothic novels, Miss Martindale,' he said lightly.

  `I am not a fribble, Mr Devonshire. I do not have flights of fancy.' She sighed, wishing now that she had not spoken of her hopes and fears. Put into words, they sounded so frivolous she was afraid he must think her missish, when she wanted so much to appear cool and gracious. 'But there, you are probably right.' Then suddenly, as if she had put it all behind her, she suggested, `The horses are fresh, what do you say to a canter?'

  Instead of waiting for a reply, she put spur to her horse and drew away from him. She dug her heels in and was soon galloping, her ears filled with the thunder of hooves, her body low and eyes down as the ground rushed past beneath her. This was heaven! She knew she could not outrun him using a side saddle and on this particular mount, but it was fun to try.

  Determined not to behave as James Martindale had done and lure her away from her chaperon, in the shape of the young groom who plodded on a sturdy cob behind them, he did not follow. She would stop when she realised he was not behind her and wait for them both to catch up. But she did not pull up and he was at an impasse.

  `Sir! Sir!' the groom cried behind him. 'Go after her, sir, for I cannot.'

  Cursing under his breath, he set off after her. She was a fine horsewoman, he noted as drew closer, but she was riding side saddle and that was not easy at that speed. And how to stop her safely when he did ride up alongside her, he did not know. He could not seize her reins, it would be asking for trouble. He could hear her laughing and he feared for her at the same time as he appreciated her skill.

  `Miss Martindale,' he shouted. 'Juliette, pull up please, I own myself beaten.'

  She seemed to be galloping straight for the lake, but suddenly she drew up and brought her horse to a blowing, sweating stop beneath a chestnut tree, whose blossom filled the air with its scent. She jumped easily to the ground and turned to face him.

  He threw himself off his horse and found himself standing so close to her, he could see the gentle heaving of her bosom and a laughing mouth that simply asked to be kissed. He took her arms in his hands and pulled her towards him, lowering his head to her upturned face.

  Her laughter turned to an expression of astonishment, but there was no fear there, no anger, but that was merely her innocence, he knew; she did not understand what was happening. Just in time he realised his folly and drew away, dropping his hands to his sides and stepping back. `Are you hurt?'

  `Goodness, no.' Afraid to admit, even to herself, that she had wanted him to kiss her and was disappointed that he had not, her voice was unusually hearty. 'Did you think the horse had bolted with me?'

  `Had it?' he queried with a smile.

  `Certainly not! If I had been on Diablo and riding astride, as I am used to do in the country, you would not have caught up with me.'

  `But this is not Hartlea, it is London.' He was still so shaken by desire he could hardly look at her. Of all the stupid things to do, to fall in love at this particular time! And what was worse, almost to declare himself. He pulled himself together. 'We must be thankful that no one saw us.'

  `Oh, but someone did,' she said and nodded towards another rider who sat quite still on another path, watching them.

  He followed her gaze. 'Martindale!' he said as the man turned his horse and trotted away.

  `Are you quite sure? He was too far away to recognise, surely?'

  `I am sure.' Her euphoria evaporated as suddenly as it had come, leaving her deflated and worried. She had no reason to believe he would not report what he had seen and what would the tattlemongers say about it, not to mention her mama?

  He helped her to mount and they rode silently side by side towards Thomas, who was limping along beside his cob, apparently having been thrown in his efforts to keep up with them.

  Chapter Three

  It seemed to be tacitly agreed among the members of the ton that Miss Martindale would make her choice between Mr Devonshire and her cousin, and her other would-be suitors quietly faded into the background to watch developments. Consequently, in the next few weeks, Juliette found herself escorted by one or the other gentleman to the theatre, to Bullock's Museum, to Vauxhall Gardens and Astley's Amphitheatre, to soirees and routs and afternoon tea parties, which she might have enjoyed if she had not been so conscious of the fact that each was trying to outdo the other, and that wherever she was taken by one

  of them, sooner or later, the other would appear as if by accident.

  `You would think the fellow would take the hint,' James grumbled, when Philip arrived towards the end of a musical evening being held at Lady Grainger's house in Park Lane.

  'Hint, Mr Martindale?' Juliette queried. 'What can you mean?' It was the supper interval and they had repaired to the dining room for refreshments. Juliette sat holding a plate containing a small pork pie and a plum tartlet in one hand and a glass of cordial in the other.

  James was at her side, as he had been all evening. She wished he would go away so that she could converse with other guests about the music, which had been very fine. He, apparently, had been unimpressed and she wondered why he had bothered to attend.

  `Well, I mean to say, the man should know by now he is no
t welcome.'

  `Not welcome?' she queried, looking at her mother who sat across the room, apparently deep in conversation with one of her bosom bows, but Juliette knew she was keeping a watchful eye on her. 'I think Lady Grainger would hardly have invited him if he were not welcome.'

  `Lady Grainger is an empty-headed goose and will do anything and invite anyone if she is told it is fashionable to do so. The gabble-grinders have made a meal of his mysterious background and she must needs see the man for herself. Look at her now, gushing all over him.'

  `She is simply being a good hostess. Really, Mr Martindale, I wonder what you can have against Mr Devonshire that you dislike him so much.'

  `Me?' he queried lightly. 'I have nothing personal against him, nothing at all, so long as he leaves you alone.'

  He knew he had gone too far when he saw her eyes flash and her cheeks colour angrily.

  `Mr Martindale, I shall be the one to say who is to leave me alone, not you. If you have elected yourself my guardian, let me remind you that I have a father who is very careful of me. Your services in that respect are neither required nor wanted.'

  `Oh, I did not mean that. My concern is of a different nature entirely. It is simply that I am abominably jealous when I see the way he looks at you...' He paused. 'He is not half so rich as he would have you believe, you know, and what he has has been acquired through dubious means.'

  `By that, I suppose you are referring to the story, that he has made his money in trade,' she said. 'There is nothing wrong with honest work, Mr Martindale - I collect you work for the War Department yourself. And Mr Devonshire has not spoken to me of his wealth at all. Why should he? I hardly know him.'

  `Oh, I don't know,' he said airily. 'You seemed to know him very well that morning you went riding with him in the park. When I saw you, you were certainly not riding. Unless my eyes deceived me, you appeared to be in his arms.'

  `I most certainly was not!' she said, feeling her face burning at the remembrance.