My Lady Gloriana

by Sylvia Halliday

  He stared in surprise. The last favors—without the need for his impassioned entreaties? “But surely…” he began.

  Her smile was soft and tender, almost virginal. “You are so dear to me, Thorne. Why should I not give you what I know you have so eagerly sought, though you’ve never spoken the words?”

  He cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed. “Time enough to discuss the matter when I’m better.” He frowned. That seemed such an inadequate response, after the woman had just offered him her body. He had a sudden thought. “In the meantime, I’m touched by your loyalty and devotion. I shall ask Dobson to bring round a jeweler from Mayfield. A sapphire or two to go with your eyes would not be amiss.”

  “Oh!” She clapped her hands, her eyes lighting up with joy. “You mustn’t!”

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “Well, then, perhaps I shan’t,” he teased.

  “No!” she cried, an unseemly eagerness in her voice. He suddenly recalled her ill-disguised envy at the sight of other women’s jewels, then shook off his ungentlemanly thoughts. He’d known other women who were hungry for his wealth, but none of them would have been a devoted nurse for weeks, as Penelope had been.

  As though she had read the momentary doubt on his face, Penelope smiled shyly. “Of course, my dear, you may do as you wish. It matters not to me. But I should prefer something more personal from you.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I’ve noted that you often wear a signet ring on your little finger. I should very much like to have that.”

  That alarmed him at once. A ring with his crest? “Not as a covenant, surely!”

  “Of course not, my dear. I would never take advantage of your weakened state to force you into a marriage agreement. ’Twould simply be something to remind me of you when we’re apart. Something that has touched you as intimately as… as I would like to.”

  He scratched his head. Would he ever understand the mind of a female? “Foolish request. ’Tis old and worn, a base metal, with little value. I wear it out of habit. But I shall give it.” He grinned. “And a sapphire too, I think.”

  She jumped from her chair, came around the table, leaned down and kissed him. Her mouth was hot and eager; he was surprised that he felt no answering response. She lifted her head and giggled. “I knew it was not madcap of me to abandon London for all these weeks.”

  “Pardon. I did not mean to intrude.” Thorne turned. His mother stood in the doorway, a letter in her hand.

  Penelope curtsied. “Your Grace. ’Tis always a pleasure to see you. You have merely interrupted an innocent kiss. Your splendid son has just promised me a lovely gift for my weeks of service. I thought only to thank him.”

  Lady Sarah smiled, a tight grimace that seemed to Thorne to be forced. “Of course, my dear. You have been positively selfless all this time. A paragon of virtue.” She crossed the room and nodded graciously to Penelope. “It has always been clear to me what brought you here,” she added dryly.

  Thorne frowned. Was that sarcasm in his mother’s voice? He cursed to himself. Where the devil was Dobson? No one, outside of his households, suspected his animosity toward his mother. But with Dobson absent, he would have to speak directly to her, unless he was clever. He gave her a warm smile, then turned to Penelope. “It would seem my lady mother has brought me a letter.” He held out his hand in silence.

  “From your friend, DeWitt,” she said, placing the letter in his palm.

  He looked hopefully behind her toward the doorway. “I have not seen my valet for half the afternoon. Have you, Penelope?” He was quite pleased with himself for managing to avoid speaking directly to his mother for any length of time.

  She was clearly aware of his slight, as well. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “While you were resting, John, I allowed him to go into Mayfield. He’s quite musical, you know. And there’s a violinist in the village who has expressed interest in a musical afternoon one of these days. I thought that perhaps their duets would please you.”

  Thorne twisted his lips in a mocking smile. “We cannot deny my mother her indulgences, can we, Penelope? But I should like Dobson here when I need him. Henceforth,” he added. He broke the seal and tore open the letter. “Now what does Felix have to say?”

  Defeated, his mother turned to the door and beat a hasty retreat.

  Thorne quickly perused Felix’s note. “He wants me to come to London. The gambling is boring without me, he says.”

  Penelope looked horrified. “Oh, but you can’t!”

  He was flattered by her seeming concern for his health. “Perhaps in another week or so…”

  She stamped her dainty foot. “And then I’ll have to share you with others,” she pouted.

  So much for being flattered, he thought ruefully. She hadn’t been thinking of him. He felt suddenly weary of her company, her clinging helplessness. He missed Gloriana’s strength, her independence. “Perhaps it would be best if you return to the city in a day or so. Your presence here must surely have caused some unkind gossip. I shall join you within the fortnight, or sooner. I’ll wager the excitement of the city will do more for my health than many more tedious days here.”

  She sighed, clearly reading the resolve in his eyes. “If I must go,” she said, “’twill be done. I shall miss you, my dear.” She flounced toward the door, then whirled about, her skirts billowing. “But you will remember my ring and my sapphire before I go, won’t you?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Felix settled himself comfortably into an armchair in Thorne’s drawing room, took the serving maid’s proffered cordial, and gave the girl’s ample bottom a vicious pinch as she turned toward Thorne. She squeaked in pain, hastily set down her master’s glass before him, and scurried from the room.

  Thorne frowned. “I will thank you not to molest my servants, Felix,” he growled.

  Felix shook his head. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, friend Thorne. You’ve changed so, since your injury. You’ve turned down every gaming afternoon I’ve arranged since you’ve returned to London and Havilland House. Not dice, not cards. Not even the opportunity to wager on the new wrestler who’s come to town. And now to scold me about my behavior toward the lower orders? You’ve always been soft toward your servants, but this is absurd. A harmless pinch? The girl expects it.”

  “Not in my house,” Thorne said in a tight voice. “Not now.” He felt comfortable saying the words, comfortable with the man he had become since his days in Whitby. He was no longer the distant aristocrat, seeing the people beneath him as faceless ciphers but as flesh and blood men and women, with the same hopes and dreams as he had. And he was doubly appreciative of their toil, almost envying them, remembering his own satisfaction after a long, tiring day at the forge.

  Felix shrugged. “As you wish.” He sipped at his cordial. “But you must begin to get out again, even if you reject the amusements I offer you. Or the whole town will begin to think that you’ve become a monk!”

  “Let them think what they wish. I can use my recuperation as an excuse for a time. After that, I shall deal with the gossips.”

  “And Lady Penelope Crawford? I must tell you that she has confided in me, with a deal of self-pity, that she has not been invited here since your return.”

  That was true enough. He had avoided sending around an invitation to the lady, had even had Dobson tell her that he’d gone for a stroll on the one day she had come to call. He feared she would be more aggressive in her offer of sexual favors, and he didn’t want her. Not after he had known Gloriana. “I’ll have a small musical evening here when I’m feeling stronger. That should satisfy the lady.”

  Felix leered. “An enticing singer, perhaps?”

  “No. My valet, Cleve Dobson. He has an extraordinary talent for the flute. I’ve even allowed him to take in a few pupils since we’ve returned.” It had pleased him to allow the man a modest life of his own, apart from his duties, seeing his valet with fresh eyes since their time in Whitby. A man of character and st
rength, a calming presence who accepted his lower position in life without ever becoming servile.

  Felix snorted. “Humph! You’re getting quite democratic in your ways, friend Thorne. I do not like it. As for Lady Penelope, I fear a large gathering is not what she desires. You should know that she has been displaying your signet ring on her finger at every assembly she attends. She never speaks of it, but she allows the gossips to assume it’s a prelude to a betrothal.”

  Thorne scowled. “I never meant it as such! I shall have to disabuse her of the notion when next we meet.”

  “She’s a headstrong young woman. If you do marry her, I would suggest you take a firm hand to her bare bottom with some regularity. I know I would.” He smacked his hands together to emphasize his words.

  Thorne pursed his lips in disapproval. “Really, Felix, I—” He was interrupted by a soft tap on the open door. He looked up and smiled. “Ah, Dobson. We were just speaking of you. How is your new pupil, that rather charming silk merchant’s daughter?”

  To Thorne’s surprise, Dobson blushed to the roots of his blond hair. “Very apt, Your Grace,” he murmured. “I… that is… she…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve only come to tell you that the tailor is here to fit your new coat,” he said in his proper valet’s voice.

  Thorne suppressed a smile. He’d caught a glimpse of the young woman this morning—a raven-haired beauty with bright eyes—and had almost laughed aloud at Dobson’s loss of his usual composure. He suspected that, in a short time, more than music would bind them together. “I shall come soon enough, Dobson. Thank you.” He rose from his chair. “But first, let us see Lord DeWitt out.”

  They walked Felix to the door. Dobson helped the man into his warm cloak and handed him his hat. About to go out to the street, Felix turned. “At least, can I interest you in a visit to Bedlam, friend Thorne? They say the madmen are great sport to watch. They babble and tear their hair, and even strip naked when asked. Or even Newgate. I’ve heard there’s a condemned highwayman there who is most amusing. He can go on for hours about how bravely he intends to die.”

  Thorne resisted the sudden urge to push Felix into the street. How had he ever enjoyed the company of this depraved voluptuary? “I’ve never been to either place,” he said in a tight voice. “Nor do I plan to go. I scarce can see amusement in the misfortunes of others.”

  After the door had closed, Thorne turned to Dobson. “I will not be home to that man again. Ever.” He headed toward the staircase and the waiting tailor, Dobson following close behind him. “Prisons. Madhouses. I would never set foot in such places. Would you?” He looked back at his valet. To his surprise, the man had stopped, his face turning red. “What is it, man?” he asked.

  “In truth, Your Grace,” Dobson said softly, “I was once a prisoner in a gaol.”

  Thorne gaped in surprise. “Gads, man! How did that come to be? Where?”

  Dobson looked away. “Debtor’s prison.”

  Thorne turned about on the staircase and headed back to the drawing room. “I should like to know your story, if it doesn’t offend you to tell it. Come. Sit with me.” Though Dobson protested that it was unseemly for a servant to sit with his master, Thorne insisted that he take a chair opposite him. When they were comfortably settled, Thorne raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What was your background? I’ve always assumed a respectable education.” It shamed him now to remember that he had never cared enough to wonder how this clearly talented man had become a valet.

  Dobson sighed. “My father was a merchant of spices. I had a comfortable upbringing. Music, as you have learned, was my true passion.”

  “And then your father died and left you destitute?”

  Dobson’s face darkened. Thorne could hear the crunch of his jaw. “Not at all. My esteemed parent is very much alive. My late mother was Dutch. In consequence, my father was able, some years ago, to join with one of my mother’s distant relatives to buy into a cinnamon plantation in Ceylon. In the Dutch East Indies, where he lives to this day.”

  “And you didn’t join him? Surely it would have ensured a comfortable life.”

  “I was young and headstrong. And I wished to pursue my musical talents.” Dobson shrugged. “And so he disowned me and sailed away.”

  “Leaving you to fend for yourself.” He had to admire Dobson’s courage. He wasn’t sure that he himself would ever have had the strength to renounce his own secure future.

  “I managed well enough at first. A small group of musicians. Here in London Town. We played at assembly balls. But there were quarrels. After we had drifted apart, I piped on the streets.”

  Thorne managed a smile. “Much as you did in Whitby, under quite different circumstances.”

  “Yes. But my debts for lessons, a new flute, became more than I could bear. And I found it increasingly difficult to find work.”

  “And so you were sent to prison. But how did you effect your release?”

  “A very kind gentlewoman, who visits prisons regularly, paid my debts and hired me as a valet. For her son.”

  “And who was that remarkable creature?” Thorne couldn’t imagine anyone in his circle being that benevolent.

  “The Dowager Duchess, the Lady Sarah Havilland.”

  “Good God!” Thorne took a moment to digest this news. He had never wondered how his mother spent her days, still seeing her with the bitterness of his youth. But clearly she had a more refined sensibility than he, sympathetic to the misfortunes of others. He stirred uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “Isn’t my tailor waiting?”

  Dobson rose from his chair. “Yes, Your Grace.” He shook his head. “I fear all of your coats will have to be replaced. Your tailor has complained that the sleeves seem too tight now. Your arms have grown quite muscular.”

  “Another reason not to regret the time in Whitby.”

  “Do you miss it, milord?”

  He sighed. “Oddly enough, I do. I never knew there could be such pleasure in work.”

  Dobson laughed. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but ’tis said that to be rich and idle is the hallmark of a gentleman. But to be poor and unemployed is contemptible.”

  “Wisely put. I shall have to find something useful that doesn’t disgrace my family name.” He chuckled. “Perhaps I shall open a blacksmith shop in Mayfield, and work in secret, as Gloriana did.”

  Dobson gave him a searching look, his clear blue eyes filled with warmth and understanding. “Do you miss her?” he said at last.

  Thorne groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. “More than I can express. How could I have been so vile, with that absurd wager?”

  “Begging your pardon, milord, but the man who set out for Whitby last summer has long since vanished. I am proud to call you my master.” He grinned. “Even if you open a blacksmith shop, and toil beneath your station.”

  Thorne slapped at his forehead. A blacksmith shop! How had he forgotten? What was the name Gloriana had told him? Old Diggory. “Dobson!” he cried. “Have Rogers look in the city for a blacksmith named Diggory Dyer. I must speak to him.”

  His valet looked bemused. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Thorne started up the stairs, feeling more hopeful than he had in weeks. If the man could be found, he surely would have news of Gloriana.

  • • •

  The old man smiled, a toothless grin that lit up his wizened face. “’Course I remembers the wench, your worship. Best ’prentice I ever had in all me days.”

  Thorne sighed his relief. “When did you see her last?”

  Diggory Dyer scratched his balding head. “She come to me end o’ summer. Wi’ a heavy purse o’ gold coins.” He frowned at Thorne. “And don’t be thinkin’ they was stolen. Her Charlie had give her a heap o’ jewels, and she sold ’em. But, says she, she was goin’ back to the ring, and didn’t want to keep all that gold for Royster to find. I has her money locked up in a safe place, never you fear.”

  End of summer. When she’d run away from Whitby. “And you haven’t s
een her since?”

  “She sent around a note wi’ a fat little man. Eyes like black buttons. Mebbe a month ago. Wanted a hundred bob, no questions asked. I give it. And not a word since then.”

  “And you still have the rest?”

  “Safe and sound. And a pretty little fan, all lace and pictures and such. She wept when she give it me.”

  Thorne closed his eyes for a moment. She’d kept his fan as a keepsake. A sweet reminder of their dance in the garden, perhaps. Maybe, if he found her, there was hope for them both. He said a silent prayer. He pressed a coin into Old Diggory’s hand. “Thank you, my good man. If you hear from her again, send word around to Havilland House.” He eyed the old man’s forge, half tempted to pick up a hammer and see if he still retained his skill with the iron. Then he suddenly realized what Diggory had said about Royster. “She wanted you to keep her money. Didn’t she trust Royster?”

  The old man laughed, sucking in air as he did so; scarcely a sound came from his open mouth. “That villain? She hated ’im. He were always tryin’ to have his way wi’ her, but he were afraid o’ her Da. And Charlie be so jealous he would have run ’im through.”

  He felt a surge of relief. She had only flirted with Royster to hurt him. He frowned. He hated himself for his next ugly thought, but he had to ask. “And her other men?”

  “Be ye daft? Weren’t no other men. Not ever. She were too good a girl for that.”

  Thorne groaned. And he had called her a whore, and thought it so. There would be much to atone for, when he found her again.

  • • •

  Thorne looked around the crowded space in Newgate and shook his head. The noise and the filth and the stench of the prisoners were almost unbearable. Men and women huddled in corners, laughing and shouting at one another, or sitting in quiet grief. A few small fires burned in braziers, but did little to dispel the cold December air that seeped in at the barred windows. He turned to his valet. “By the cross of St. George, Dobson, how could you have endured such misery?”