The Beringer Heiress

by Jan Constant

  “Allow me to take a little pleasure in my work,” he murmured, smiling into her stormy gaze, and, blushing, she found her rage abruptly subsiding.

  “Pray ... let us hurry,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “Sir Julian should be got to shelter as soon as possible.”

  With a skill that surprised her, the wagoner turned his horse and set off back the way he had come. Looking over her shoulder, Emma saw Lord Devern collect the carriage horses from the shed and, leading them by their long reins, fall in behind the wagon.

  She had taken little notice of Vivian Devern’s description of an “inn of sorts” and was dismayed to see a run-down, decrepit building of almost a ruinous appearance. However, there was no alternative in sight, and, against her better judgment, she reluctantly allowed Sir Julian to be carried inside.

  A thin, melancholy man, in complete contrast to the usual style expected of a landlord, met them and escorted them glumly upstairs to a room overlooking the road. Emma, who had been expecting the worst, was agreeably surprised by its clean state. The floor had recently been swept, and the bed linen appeared newly laundered. A glowing fire warmed the room, obviously lit some time ago. Mildly surprised, Emma wondered briefly upon the extravagance of keeping a fire lit upon the chance arrival of a guest, something which even the most popular inns did not do. Lord Devern arriving at that moment with the intention of divesting the invalid of his clothes, she retired and, mindful that they had not eaten since the previous day, determined to find something suitable for Sir Julian to eat.

  Sometime later, she returned to the bedroom carrying a tray laden with a jug of weak ale, four boiled eggs, and a plate of bread and butter.

  “The kitchens are disgusting,” she announced, “however I’ve read the cook a homily, and she has promised to mend her ways. I think really she was quite glad to find someone interested. . . . The poor woman is troubled with swollen ankles. I told her to drink barley water and put her feet up when possible.”

  While she was speaking, she had poured out a beaker of ale and now offered it to Sir Julian, who was lying in bed, looking pale but more alert than he had done.

  “I had not thought of you in the role of ministering angel, Miss Beringer,” remarked Vivian Devern, sounding amused.

  “Well, I cannot say that I had thought of you as a rescuer,” she returned conversationally. “And I am sure that Sir Julian had never viewed you as a possible valet, so we are all as surprised as one another.”

  Refusing to be fed, Sir Julian firmly took the spoon out of her hand and attacked his own egg. “Eat your breakfast,” he advised. “Devern is desirous of starting for town as soon as possible.”

  Emma began upon her breakfast, offering kindly to share it with the impatient man by the window. “An excellent idea, my lord,” she said. “Allow me a moment, and I will make a list of things which Sir Julian’s valet should bring with him.”

  “No need,” put in her guardian. “You can tell him yourself.”

  Miss Beringer looked up. “If you suppose for one moment, Sir Julian, that I am prepared to leave you here in the hands of a slovenly wretch and a sluttish cook, then I must tell you that you are quite mistaken. ” With those words she returned composedly to her breakfast and continued eating as if the matter were settled.

  Lord Devern gave an appreciative chuckle. “There’s a facer for you, Ju,” he remarked. “Your little companion is showing her mettle.”

  Sir Julian sent him a quelling look. “Miss Beringer,” he began in a reasonable tone, “it is not practical that you stay here. . . . Such a thing will not do, as you are well aware.”

  Emma studied him with a practiced eye. “If you mean that folk will gossip, then I’d say that you were nearer falling asleep than attempting to seduce me,” she said bluntly. “And, if you think that your honor might be in danger from me—” A sharp glance from his black eyes made her cut off what she had been about to say, and, changing tactics, she suggested sweetly that she should send a note to Miss Plantagenet. “For then, you know,” she went on brightly, “she could come and nurse you—or would that not be quite proper, as you are not officially engaged?”

  Sir Julian ground his teeth, and Vivian Devern stepped in quickly. “There is no need for any such arrangement, I assure you. The valet and a maid can be here by this evening with a carriage to carry you both to London tomorrow.”

  “Then, all is settled,” said Emma promptly, jumping to her feet to urge him on his way before her guardian could argue further.

  ‘ ‘Devern. ” A voice stopped him at the door. “ Not a word, mind.”

  “It’s too good a story to hide,” was the soft answer, and before anyone could say anything more, his lordship closed the door quietly behind his departing figure.

  Going to the window, Emma looked down into the road and saw him come out of the inn, deep in conversation with the loutish landlord. After a moment, something changed hands, then Lord Devern climbed into his tilbury and, with a flourish of his whip, drove away.

  “Do you think he will spread it abroad?” she wondered aloud and, receiving no reply, glanced over her shoulder to find Sir Julian asleep, the spoon still in his hand and the tray perched precariously upon his chest.

  Removing the tray, she tucked the covers around his shoulders, unable to resist smoothing aside an errant lock of dark hair that had fallen over his brows. She studied his face, finding it both interesting and different without the amused arrogance with which he usually viewed the world. Much later that morning the doctor arrived, showing himself upstairs and into the bedroom.

  “Dr. Bartholomew,” he announced, “at your service, dear lady.” Bowing as deeply as his rotund figure would allow, he crossed to the bed and peered at his patient who had just awoken. A plump hand was placed on Sir Julian’s brow, the physician shook his head, and murmured “tsk tsk,” before taking the injured man’s pulse to confirm the worrying diagnosis. “How many fingers, dear sir?” he inquired, waving his forefinger and going on to examine the wound, without waiting for a reply.

  With a mournful shake of his head, he joined Emma, who had been watching this performance from the window. “A sad business, dear lady,” he began, “but with great care we shall pull him through.”

  Emma opened her eyes. ‘ ‘Pull him through! ’ ’ she repeated in a sharp, disbelieving whisper. “Good God—it’s only a slight concussion, isn’t it?”

  The doctor regarded her carefully. “Have you had experience of such matters, may I inquire?” he asked, losing some of his bland manner.

  “Indeed, I have,” she said smartly. “I was with the army in the Peninsula.”

  The complacent smile faded. “Then . . . with your aid, the patient will do very well, I have no doubt of that,” she was assured smoothly.

  Dr. Bartholomew opened his bag and delved inside, bringing forth a knife and kidney-shaped bowl, a proceeding which Emma viewed with deep suspicion.

  “I hope you have no intention of bleeding Sir Julian!” she cried. “For that is something I will not allow.”

  “Dear lady, if the sight of blood is too much for your delicate sensibilities, you have only to step outside—”

  “I do not turn faint at the sight of blood, sir.” Taking up a defensive position between the bed and the hovering doctor, she looked the physician firmly in the eye. “He has no fever, so there is no need for such an old-fashioned remedy. ’ ’

  “Indeed? What a knowledgeable young lady you are, to be sure. My advice would be to let blood, but if you are so averse to the old and tried method, then we will use leeches— if a fever should result, I shall absolve myself of all blame. ”

  Again his hand reached into his bag, but Emma’s curt voice made him stay his search.

  “No leeches,” she said firmly.

  Dr. Bartholomew withdrew his hand and surveyed the resolute, diminutive figure confronting him with steady resolve. “May one inquire, madam, why you sent for me?”

  “To tell the truth, I did not, bu
t I suppose that the person who did thought that you would be of some use. However, I see that he was quite mistaken; I even doubt very much whether you are really a doctor—your methods are more those of a quack! You can do nothing here, so I will bid you good day.”

  The doctor stared at her with total disbelief, while a sound fast becoming familiar issued from the bed.

  “The lady is right,” Sir Julian agreed. “I do not need a doctor. Give the man a guinea for his troubles, kitten. Let us detain you no longer, Dr. Bartholomew.”

  “What a quack!” exclaimed Emma when the disgruntled physician had closed the door behind his indignant back.

  “What a fierce defender I have in you,” commented Sir Julian, making her blush.

  “I only hope I was right,” she said anxiously. “But the army doctor never bled without cause, saying an ill person needed his blood to get better.”

  “I prefer to keep mine,” her guardian assured her with a smile. Cautiously sitting up, he looked round, moving his head experimentally. “The giddiness has gone,” he announced. “I shall get up.”

  With difficulty Emma persuaded him to relinquish this idea, pointing out the foolhardiness of such a proposal. “Only stay abed until the morning,” she suggested.

  With every sign of reluctance, Julian Leyton, who had been unpleasantly surprised by how weak he felt even lying against the pillows, allowed himself to be persuaded. In better accord with each other than either would have thought possible only a few weeks previously, the day passed pleasantly; Emma making her patient laugh with her colorful accounts of her adventures with the army, and Sir Julian contributing pithy tales of his youth.

  A dinner of roast beef was served, which the diners had just finished when the sound of hooves and rumbling wheels brought Emma hastily to the window. Looking down into the road below, she saw the angular figure of Mrs. Hill alighting from a chaise, aided by the slim form of the baronet’s valet.

  Recognizing the despondent droop of her shoulders, Sir Julian spoke sympathetically from the bed. “Back to the everyday round of things, Miss Beringer.”

  Surprised that her feelings were understood, Emma turned to study him. “Do you get tired of the Social round?” she asked.

  Julian Leyton grinned. ‘ ‘I have an escape, as you may have noticed—the estate business often calls me out of town.” Emma looked hopeful. ‘‘I find that I, too, much prefer the country,” she remarked artlessly.

  Sir Julian did not pretend not to understand but shook his head. “It would not do,” he said. “You are my ward, and we must take care to obey the rules and not cause gossip. As it is, we must hope that Devern does not find amusement in spreading a colorful account of our adventure.”

  Chapter Ten

  '' Oh, how exciting—just like a romance from the library!” declared Elvira enviously the next day, when Emma was recounting the tale over an informal dinner shared by the ladies of Cumberland Square.

  ‘ ‘I daresay you are disappointed at there being no haunted ruins nearby,” teased Emma. “Thunder and lightning are the best I can offer in the way of Gothic effects. The inn was rather ghastly, but only because it was drab and dirty, not because of any mystery surrounding it.”

  “I wish I had been with you—a real adventure. How I envy you, Emma.”

  “You would not have cared for it,” stated her friend positively. “Only think how my new traveling gown and pelisse are quite ruined, and you know you are afraid of the dark. ”

  “Emma did very well,” put in Lady Beauvale quietly. “I am only glad that you had experience of such things and knew what to do. I am sure that I would have had no idea of the best action—Julian speaks very highly of you, Emma dear.”

  “Really?” Emma blushed with pleasure. “I am only happy that I was there—though, that is a silly thing to say, for if Sir Julian had not taken me to visit my aunt, he would not have been on that road in the first place! I feel quite guilty!”

  “What nonsense.” Lady Beauvale laughed. “Such an accident could have happened anywhere, and, with the miles

  Julian drives, it is pure luck that he has not had an upset before. He much prefers the country and, I daresay that as soon as he is well enough, will be off to Hampshire.”

  Her words proved true; Sir Julian had no sooner lost his interesting pallor than he took himself away on estate business, leaving the house in Cumberland Square quiet and dull without his masculine presence. Emma, who had thought that they were on good terms and had been surprised to find that she was looking forward to his company, found herself cast down in dull spirits, viewing the rest of the Season with disfavor and lack of interest.

  “Why we cannot go to Brighton or Bath, I do not know,” complained Elvira, who appeared to share her feelings. ‘ ‘Aunt Diana is quite happy to stay in town all the year round, and Ju is the most selfish wretch, taking himself off like that without a word. Even the country would be different! If only Jo—” She broke off and sent a guilty glance at her friend.

  “Jo—?” Emma repeated innocently. “Now who can you mean? ’ ’ Eyes dancing impishly, she pretended to wrack her brain, sighing elaborately at last and appearing to give up, only to ask suddenly, “Have you seen Johnnie Gray recently?”

  Her ploy worked, and Elvira jerked upright, her eyes wide, vivid color burning in her cheeks. “I vow that you are a wicked girl, Emma Beringer,” she cried. “To even think that I—”

  “Johnnie Gray is so charming that I own I would have been surprised if you did not like him. ”

  Elvira managed to look both relieved and downcast at the same time. “Of course he is gallant to all. . . .”

  “He is nice—a dear, kind man,” said her friend. “But I must confess that he seemed particularly interested in you from the first moment he saw you. ”

  Elvira looked gratified. “What nonsense,” she said loftily, but could not restrain a little wriggle of pleasure. “I hardly regarded him.”

  “Did you not? Well, he obviously regarded you,” observed Emma. “I am afraid that all the other females paled into insignificance. Even so old a friend as I found myself being viewed as a means of introduction!”

  “He is certainly very handsome.”

  “Do you think so?” queried Emma teasingly. “That precise shade of ginger hair ...”

  “Ginger! Why, it is the most beautiful auburn!”

  Emma laughed. “I thought that you had hardly regarded him,” she reminded her friend.

  “Indeed—but hair such as his can hardly be ignored.” “And that dashing green uniform—together they make a striking effect. There is something romantic about a soldier, is there not?”

  Lifting her chin, Elvira looked at the other girl. “So I believe most females feel,” she answered steadily. “To me, however, a poet is by far the most romantic of callings.” “Oh, Elvira!” cried Emma. “I had thought that you had discovered a tendre for Johnnie Gray. ”

  Tears rose in Elvira’s dark eyes. “How could you suppose me so disloyal, so changeable in my feelings?” she asked. “I know that you think him lacking—that he should have faced Miss Plantagenet. ...”

  “Indeed he should. I did not care for the way he made off, but I daresay he was afraid that his benefactor would hear of his liaison with you and turn him off. ”

  “Precisely. He has written to explain that he must retain his position at all costs. His suit will never be acceptable until he has made his way in the world. Our—relationship must be kept even more secret. . . . You do understand, Emma? No one must know of our . . . attachment. Bevis says it would be fatal to all our hopes if it were to become known.”

  Muffling a snort of disgust, Emma allowed her silence to be taken for agreement. “Your loyalty does you credit, Elvira. I hope that your poet deserves it. But are you sure that you are not making a mistake? Johnnie Gray—”

  Elvira stopped her with a gesture. “Is all that any female could wish for,” she finished, an unconsciously wishful note in her voice. “But Bev
is and I exchanged vows, Emma. I could not break an oath. We exchanged tokens. ...”

  Her interest caught, not having been aware of this, Emma raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Elvira, after an initial hesitation, produced a tiny ring on a chain round her neck. Inspecting it, Emma privately thought it bought in some fairground but did not say so.

  “It was his mother’s,” explained Elvira sentimentally, dropping the trinket back down the neck of her gown. “I gave him Papa’s pocket watch in return—you must promise me never to mention this, for Ju would be mad with rage if he knew. He wanted it, you see, but Aunt Diana said that I should have it. Being so young at the time, it was the only thing of Papa’s which I could remember.”

  “Oh, Elvira!” Emma sighed. “You seem to positively look for trouble. Could you not have used something else to plight your troth?”

  Elvira shook her black curls. “No—it had to be of immense value, you know. If Bevis loved me enough to give me his mother’s sapphire, then I had to prove my own devotion by giving him something of equal value.”

  Her voice was unhappy, and Emma could see that she was regretting her action. The younger girl was caught in a situation from which she could not extricate herself without admitting that her love for the would-be poet had waned, and neither her loyalty nor pride would allow her to do so. Understanding her difficulty, Emma sighed sympathetically, privately deciding that Bevis had forgone all right to Elvira’s heart, and that she would take a personal hand in the matter.

  She was rather pleased to have this task to occupy her mind; she had thought that she and Sir Julian were in accord and had looked forward to confirming their friendship once he was better. However, far from seeking her company, her guardian appeared to be avoiding her and, since his recovery, had taken himself out of the house as much as possible, spending most of his evenings at White’s, the gaming club, and at the moment was absent on a visit to a friend, who lived on the other side of London.