He gave a sigh and sat back on the bench, wincing as his shoulder pained him at the movement. “The truth is I was shot by my best friend because I abducted his fiancé. I planned to take her to Gretna Green and force her to marry me.”
He looked back at her, expecting to see condemnation and disgust in those frightened eyes, but instead she nodded, her expression placid.
“Yes, I thought perhaps that was it,” she mused, apparently unperturbed. “Lady Dalton was an heiress of course and you're up to your neck in the river tick and desperately need funds, so I suppose it was the only thing you could do.”
He stared at her, blinking as she gasped and clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, curse my wretched tongue. I never could keep it between my teeth. I do beg your pardon!” she said, looking mortified.
Beau laughed, quite perplexed by this funny young woman. At one moment she was stuttering and looked as though she was terrified he would strike her, and at the next she said something perfectly outrageous.
“Not at all, Miss Sparrow. You have it in a nutshell but ...” He turned a little and stared at her, fixing her with his undivided attention. It was a look that was guaranteed to make most women tell him anything he liked, providing he kissed them in payment. “But why aren't you disgusted with me, Miss Sparrow? Because I can see that you aren't. You ought to be, you know. I'm disgusted by me! So it is most unnatural that you ... are not.”
She flushed a little again, but didn't seem unduly agitated by his observation. Instead she just shrugged, the movement highlighting her bony shoulders. Beau wondered when she last ate.
“I think perhaps you're right,” she said, a slight frown in her eyes. “I never seem to do or say the things I ought to. And of course I see that you simply cannot go around abducting unwilling females. Not that it would be an abduction of course if they were willing ...” she added with a thoughtful expression. “And you should never have done it of course, I know that but ...” She paused, apparently thinking it over.
“But?” he prompted, feeling absurdly entertained by her words and the serious little frown that crinkled her brow.
“But I do see why you felt you must,” she said, shaking her head and looking up at him with such sorrow in her eyes that he was really quite touched. “Are ... Are things so very bad?”
He smiled at her, not wanting her to worry on his account. He had a feeling she had troubles enough of her own. “Oh, not so very bad. After all, if it's good enough for Brummel, I dare say it's good enough for me.”
“France!” she exclaimed, her face the picture of horror. “Oh no! Don't say you're leaving?”
He was at a loss for a reply for a moment, too taken aback by the real disappointment in her eyes. Well at least someone would miss him, he thought with a wry smile.
“Sadly, yes. Miss Sparrow. Circumstances are such that ... well France should prove a little more comfortable than debtor's prison at all accounts. But I promise you I'll be back. I shall come about, sooner or later.”
“Oh.”
He watched as she looked away from him, blinking rapidly.
“Please don't upset yourself on my account, Miss Sparrow. I will be quite all right, I promise you.”
“I'm afraid it isn't on your account at all,” she said, disconcerting him once again. “It's on my own.”
“Oh?” he replied, wondering what on earth she would say next. She looked back at him and laughed, apparently amused by the expression on his face. It was a surprisingly deep sound from such a tiny frame, and he couldn't help but smile in response.
“I've done it again haven't I?” she said with a rueful expression. “My dreadful tongue. Only ... well I have been following your exploits for such a long time and now to meet you, and speak with you ... Oh, Lord Beaumont, England will be such a very dull place without you in it. Indeed it will.”
He stared at the woman in front of him. She was everything that was drab and brown and unremarkable, and yet she had such spirit once she had cast away her fears.
“Well now, that will never do,” he said, his voice soft. He wondered what on earth he was doing but ... if he could at least make one person happy, perhaps it would go some small way towards wiping his slate clean. “I cannot have you bored to tears without my scandalous affairs to entertain you, now can I? What kind of gentleman would that make me?”
“My Lord?” she replied, looking perplexed.
“Miss Sparrow, would you allow me to write to you, and perhaps do me the honour of writing in return. I should be glad to know of everything that is happening over here, and I fear there is no one else who will trouble to do so.”
He was gratified by the look in her eyes. “The honour would be mine entirely, my Lord,” she said, sounding quite breathless. “I-I would be delighted to, if ... If you are sure it is what you would like?”
“I promise you it is,” Beau replied, finding he was perfectly sincere. “And I know that ... perhaps I shouldn't ask you. In fact I know I ought not to. Unmarried as you are and writing to me of all people ...”
“Please think nothing of it!” she said in a rush, shaking her head, obviously desperate to reassure him. “I am quite able to post the letters with no one any the wiser and ... And if you would perhaps address the letters to Mrs Goodly? She has an elderly aunt who lives close by, you could send the letters to her address and no one would be any the wiser.”
She scrabbled in her reticule and withdrew a small notebook and pencil, jotting the address down for him.
Beau grinned at her, shaking his head. “Miss Sparrow, I feel your talents have been quite wasted. You should have worked for Wellington during the war. You have a mind that bends easily to intrigue and I feel you would have made the most accomplished spy.”
She gave that deep little chuckle again as she handed him the address and he couldn't help but grin in return.
“Well, sadly I must leave you now. I'm so sorry that we shan't meet again for a while. But I do look forward to hearing from you soon.”
He got to his feet and held out his hand to her.
“Are you sure?” she said, her face suddenly grave as she took his hand and held it between hers. They were tiny and cold against his larger, warmer hand. “You're sure you're ... not just being kind to me?”
“I can assure you I am being entirely selfish,” he said, squeezing her fingers a little before he released her hand. “You see, I am relying on you to entertain me, for my French is appalling and I have no idea how I shall go on.”
She cast him a mischievous look from under her eyelashes. “Oh, come, my Lord. You don't need words to find entertainment. I'm quite sure of that!”
Startled once more into giving a bark of outraged laughter, Beau shook his head.
“Watch that tongue of yours unless you're writing to me, Miss Sparrow. I feel it will lead you into trouble!”
Chapter 2
“Wherein we bid au revoir to England.”
“Now then, Bustle, don't be a watering pot, I beg you,” Beau pleaded, as his usually staunch and frankly rather terrifying house keeper dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged hanky. Mrs Buss, however, was beyond being talked down.
“T'aint, right, my Lord. You being forced to flee like a common criminal and your father letting it happen. He should be made to help you!” she said, her voice shrill with emotion as she waved the hanky in agitation. “H-he should ...” she dissolved again and Rexom, his butler, patted her gently on the back with his gnarled, arthritic fingers.
“Now then, Mrs Buss,” he said, his tone gently reproving. “Don't let the master's last sight of you for a time be one of such distress. He'll be back and we'll be waiting for him. Isn't that right, Mr Purefoy?”
The old butler turned and sighed as Beau's usually impeccable valet gave an audible sob and covered his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said with a strangled voice. “B-but when I think of his lordship, alone with all those ... those foreigners!” he said w
ith a shudder. “And without me to see to his ...” He waved his hand at Beau's elegant person and apparently found the idea of his master without his most valued asset beyond his comprehension.
He looked at his three employees with affection. Bustle and Rexom had known him since the day he was born and Purefoy had come to him when he was twelve years old. He had run from his father's home at the age of eighteen, swearing he would live on the streets rather than spend another moment under the bastard's roof. When he had done so, he'd been touched and astonished that the three of them had thrown away secure positions with his father the duke, and insisted on following him.
His life had ever been feast or famine, but they had never reproached him on the occasions when things had been tight. But then they had never before been so bad as this.
“I will come about, I swear I will. And when I do I will seek you all out and on bended knee beg you to return to me. You have my word,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Oh!” wailed Mrs Buss. “As if you'd need to!” She blew her nose with vigour and Beau hid a smile, knowing it was true.
“You are all more devoted than I can possibly deserve or understand, but I am deeply grateful for it.” He sighed and took one last look around the home he had tried so hard to keep hold of. “I expect the bailiffs will be round soon enough, and you must all go to the places I have found for you as soon as you can. I would hate for any of you to have a run in with anyone less savoury than the bailiffs, and they may well come here.”
He intercepted a speaking glance between Rexom and Purefoy and frowned. “And don't you dare think of trying to keep them out, do you hear me? I mean it!” he said with force. “You can consider that an order. For if I have to return to attend one of your funerals and get clapped in irons the minute I set foot on English soil you'll be glad you're dead, I can promise you! And then where shall we be?”
Mrs Buss gave a moan of distress and fell against Rexom who was in turn so distraught that he was moved beyond his professional dignity and hugged her.
Beau swallowed and prayed he would make it through the door without disgracing all of them and weeping. But these people were the nearest thing to a family he'd ever had and it tore at his heart to leave them behind. Silently he shook Purefoy's hand, clasping it with warmth between his own, and praying none of them would expect him to say anything cheery because his throat was too damned tight to speak at all. . He hugged Mrs Buss, giving her a proper squeeze in the way he sometimes did. It always made her flush and she would scold him severely for it, telling him not to try any of his caressing ways with her, though really he knew she was pleased.
Today, though, she didn't complain or scold, just held him tightly and sobbed against his shoulder. He breathed in the familiar scent of fresh scones and nodded to her admonishments not to go eating any nasty snails or frogs’ legs or any other dubious foreign muck and to ensure his sheets were well-aired. He turned to Rexom last of all and reached to shake his hand and was astonished when his dignified butler stepped close and hugged him. It was nearly his undoing, and when the old man said, very quiet and soft, “Take care, my boy.” It was all he could do to flee the house before he broke down entirely.
***
Beau lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. He could hear voices from the street outside and the noise of a day getting under way but couldn't bring himself to care. The noises were all wrong somehow. He was sure horses, carts and carriages made much the same noise whatever part of the world you were in, and yet it still sounded wrong. The voices were certainly wrong. The harsh cockney cry of the night watch calling the hour was enough to make him curse if they woke him after a heavy night, but right at this moment he would have given anything to have heard the familiar sound again.
The journey over a few days earlier had been miserable and interminable, and whilst the lodgings he had arranged were perfectly respectable, they were not what he was used to. And he was sure the sheets hadn't been properly aired.
He should be getting up and shifting himself, he thought with a morose sigh, not just laying here and bemoaning his fate. But somehow he couldn't find the will to do it. He closed his eyes again.
He was woken sometime later by the soft voice of the landlady's daughter. She spoke some English which had been a relief at first, but from the inviting glint he'd seen in her eyes he suspected she would spell trouble.
“Zhere is a letter for you, Milord,” she said, with her breathy voice full of promise. He didn't doubt he had only to open the door and he'd find a willing distraction in his arms in a very short amount of time. But he was far from interested in some little innocent, barely out of the school room and with no idea what she was playing at. The letter, however, that interested him. He asked her to slide it under the door and bit back a grin at the sulky huff as she walked away.
Getting to his feet, he crossed the room and swung the shutters open on the large window that overlooked the street below, and then fetched the post. It was addressed to him with neat and precise little letters that could surely only belong to one lady of his acquaintance. He was glad now that he had troubled Rexom to send her his address before he had left. He had no doubt his staff missed him but, still, it was nice to know that he wasn't entirely forgotten by everyone else.
4th June 1817
Russell Square. London
My dear Lord Beaumont,
I was so pleased to receive the details with your address on. I confess that after I left you I did doubt if you would truly contact me. I beg you will forgive me for my lack of faith.
You will, I hope, be gratified to know that the scandal sheets are full of your departure and the ton is bereft. I have enclosed a couple of clippings to amuse you. I also have it on good authority that at least a dozen ladies were reported to have fainted clean away or been taken by hysterics on the news of your leaving England. You see, I am not the only one left wondering what entertainment can possibly be found without your exploits to distract me.
I was very much hoping to have some dreadful scandal to regale you with but alas everyone is very dull. Lady Blandings was in quite a rage by all accounts on being seen at picnic wearing the same hat as Mrs Morris! I understand Mrs Morris (who I believe was once under the protection of Lord Falmouth?) is now being chaperoned by Lord Derby. Can you imagine?
They make quite a picture together, with Mrs Morris a full head taller than Derby and he at least three times as wide. There now, have I executed my duty adequately by making you smile? If not I should perhaps inform you that Mr Torquil Landon, that young tulip of fashion whom I suspect harbours ambitions to steal your crown in your absence, has suffered something of a catastrophe. Apparently much taken with Russia oil to thicken his hair (which is terribly fine and flyaway) he was unfortunately caught in a sudden summer storm. The result being a most disagreeable downpour of oil over his face and shoulders, quite ruining a rather splendid new coat of superfine.
I should think you could hear poor Mr Weston's cries of distress from across the channel. Well now my wicked tongue has run on like a bagpipe for long enough. I shall bid you adieu or you will be forced to pay for a second sheet - and then we will have to wait even longer for your return!
Your sincere friend,
Miss Millicent Sparrow
Beau sat on his bed chuckling appreciatively at Miss Sparrow's saucy tongue. So funny that the unremarkable girl who would never have captured his eye could have become a friend. But he was heartily glad that she had. Feeling suddenly that he couldn't disappoint her, and unwilling to write a reply saying only that he'd sat in his room all day moped to death, he was motivated to action. Once shaved and dressed he found himself tolerably pleased with the results. With a final tweak to his cravat he thought perhaps Purefoy would not be so terribly ashamed of him, and he set out to call upon such acquaintances he had in the country who assured him of a warm welcome.
***
8th June 1817
Lille. France
My dear Mis
s Sparrow,
I do hope you are pleased with yourself? I have been in France less than a week and such was my desire to please you I have unwittingly plunged myself into something that could have become the most dreadful scandal. At this point I should confess that, as committed as I am to your entertainment, my folly was wholly due to my ignorance of the language rather than an immediate need to give you something to laugh about. Whatever my intentions, however, I can hear your laughter as you read the next paragraphs as clearly as if you were sat beside me.
The evening began well enough. I had been invited to a ball at le Comte and Comtesse de Saint Sevres. It was a lavish affair and the Château a confection in white and gold. You know I can't help but feel we do grand houses rather better in England. There is nothing more impressive than the mouldering gloom of a crumbling English pile. Do you know, I don't believe they even had a ghost! Not one! But I digress.
I found a number of familiar faces at the affair and was duly introduced a distant cousin of the Comte who spoke tolerable English. - I swear, by the way, I have been making efforts with my French but it is such a contrary language, it makes no sense to me - Anyway, the cousin, a Monsieur Claude, and I became great friends as the evening wore on, and he was so kind as to give me the nod as to a rather glamorous widow who had taken a fancy to me. But really, Miss Sparrow, I implore you, when the fellow told me it was the lady in 'rose' how was I to know -what with his accent being so thick and when he was supposed to be speaking English - that he meant the lady in pink and not the lady whose dress was all trimmed with roses! You can see how the problem arose I take it?
You can also imagine my surprise when the lady was not quite as pleased by my advances as I might have thought she would be. However, faint heart etc. ... so I persevered, the result being a very entertaining evening being passed - that is until it was brought forcibly to my attention that the lady was the sister of Monsieur Claude! I hasten to add at this point that despite the coolness of my reception in the first instance, the lady was no little innocent and needed less encouragement than I had at first supposed.
The Devil May Care Page 2