Aurora

by Joan Smith

  “Oh, you found Mama’s necklace!” Ken said, walking forward and speaking in a normal voice.

  “Ah, you weren’t supposed to know!” Charlie said. “Mama said it was a joke on you, and I shouldn’t tell. Grown-ups are no fun to play with.”

  “Maybe we’d better just look and see if it’s still in the bag,” Ken suggested, tousling the boy’s hair with his fingers.

  “It was right where she said,” Charlie told him, and obediently opened the bag, shaking the necklace out on to his palm. It glowed a deep fire-green, catching the sun in its faceted gems.

  Kenelm lifted it up and admired it. “I’ll take it to Mama for you,” he said. Charlie accompanied him to the rose garden.

  Clare rose to her feet when she saw the two of them approach across the lawn. Her face was rigid with anger, but she was fighting to assume a look of either surprise or merriment, so he assumed he was to be treated to another farce.

  “We found it, Mama,” Charlie said.

  “Found what, dear?”

  “Your necklace. Ken already knows. Didn’t you tell him?”

  “I guessed,” Ken explained to his half brother.

  “It was right where you said, Mama. Only fancy the magpies stealing it from your dresser, and hiding it in the swallows’ nest.”

  “Those pies are up to anything,” Ken said, smiling at Clare. “Only fancy their being crafty enough to know it was tucked up in this little leather bag. They’ll be picking our locks next, and emptying our safes. Why don’t you run back and see if they have anything else hidden in that nest, Charlie?”

  Charlie, seeing the game was ruined, ran back to the gazebo to do more investigating. Clare watched him go, then turned to Ken. “After speaking to you, it struck me the magpies might have taken it, for they once flew off with a collar stud of your papa’s, Ken. The necklace was left on my dresser for a few moments the last time I wore it.”

  “Would that be before or after Papa sold it?”

  “I thought he said he had sold it . . . But really you know, his mind was straying a little at the end.”

  “More laxity on the part of the dear departed. I had a strong inkling a dead man would feature in the story. No matter. I have it now.”

  “It must be handed over with the rest of the heirlooms till the matter of your claim is settled.”

  “That won’t be long, and in the meanwhile, I’ll keep it in safekeeping from the pies myself.”

  “We don’t know how long it will take. I still think—”

  “Think again. I have Ghizlaine, who will report on the disappearance of Ferdinand the night Rutley disappeared; I have Rutley, who will testify that you directed him to shoot Ferdinand; and now we have Charles, who will say you directed him to the emeralds. Every neighbour for miles around is ready to swear I am Lord Raiker. Know when the odds are against you, Mama. A discreet retreat is your best bet—your only bet, now. You find you were mistaken in my identity, Rutley forgets the night you had him shoot Ferdinand, we ‘find’ the emeralds in the bottom of a chest in Papa’s coat pocket—the one he was wearing the last night you wore the necklace would be less incredi­ble than any other means, I think.”

  Clare quickly ran over her choices, really only a resumé of mental work already done a dozen times. She had no wish to darken her own character by an ugly scandal involving a love affair with a gypsy—and what a lover he had been! She had no hope of getting the necklace back now, no wish to antagonize Lord Raiker, who was very fond of her son, and might quite possibly do something in that quarter when she made a new match. She smiled a sweet smile of capitulation.

  “You win! How clever you are, Kennie. What hope has a poor woman against you? Now how should we best proceed? Rutley, I think, ought to be shipped off to America. We don’t want him gabbling some story of his own.”

  “Rutley stays. He needs a sharp eye kept on him to keep him out of trouble. Who better to do it than his brother? I will buy him a fishing boat, and his grandfather will introduce him to the business. He tells me he’s becoming tired of horses.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good plan, Ken.”

  “Don’t you? I do. He stays.”

  “I won’t be comfortable with him around, never know­ing what he will say or do. And he bothers me, you know. He always used to be here, trying to flirt with me.”

  “Poor you. I can well imagine how distasteful that was to one of your high principles.”

  “Ah Ken, you misunderstand. Because I encouraged you a little, you think there were others, but there never were. I never gave him a bit of encouragement.”

  “It was your meeting him in the forest at night that led him astray in his thinking, I expect. But he’s not at all clever, Clare, and misunderstood your total lack of inter­est. You are quite right to foresee difficulties in remaining here, however. As Marnie is to marry soon—”

  “What a lack of respect to your poor brother! Bernard hardly dead a year and already she is to be married again.”

  “Yes, as I was saying, that will leave the Dower House free, and at your disposal. I will be happy to pay you a fair sum in lieu of your taking occupancy. Sufficient to let you hire a house at Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Tunbridge Wells! No one goes there anymore. I had thought of Brighton.”

  Raiker looked her up and down in an insolent manner. “It’s not far enough away to suit me, but then, it’s where the rackety set are idling these days, so it might be your best bid. With luck you’ll get yourself attached to someone before the year’s out. All right, Brighton. I’ll have to supplement your income. Pray don’t consider it as a reward for your behaviour, but only as pure eagerness to see the last of you. You still have a few good years. With luck, you’ll make another catch. Remember what I said about Charles.”

  “I could never part with my son. He is the world to me.”

  “Yes, yes, I know how fond you are of him, but he isn’t Lord Raiker, Clare, and will not likely ever be, as I don’t plan to waste any time in setting up my own nursery. You might find your fondness for him diminishes when you marry. Especially if your husband has a handsome son. If—say, when—Charles becomes an encumbrance, send him to me. I will be very happy to have him.”

  “I don’t know how you can be so cruel!” she said, with a large tear forming in the corner of her eye.

  “Neither do I. I amaze myself. Still, he is over eleven. Soon he’ll be ready for Eton, and it isn’t cheap sending a boy to school.”

  “True,” she said, blinking the tear over her lid so that it slid down her cheek slowly. “I have nearly lost him. He is nearly grown up. One of these days I must let him go away to school.”

  “Expensive school. Now, I think you should call Coons and have him take those steps necessary to indicate your withdrawal of Charles’s claim to my title. You will be eager to get up to Brighton and look over a house. A good season for it. I’ll give you a thousand a year in lieu of occupying the Dower House, roughly twice what it’s worth. Along with your jointure, it is sufficient to set you up in respectable style. Of course, on your marriage, payments stop.”

  “I would prefer a lump sum.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having it over and done with myself.”

  “Say ten thousand.”

  “Say five, and not a penny more.”

  “Oh well, if you’re going to be clutch-fisted about it, I’ll take the thousand a year.”

  “Fine. Of course, unless you remain as a widow for over five years you’re making a bad bargain, but it is hardly in my interest to point it out, I suppose.”

  “Well, I’ll take the five, then, but if I’m still not married in five years, I’ll come back.”

  “No. Five thousand to clear all claim by you on the property. Take it or leave it.”

  “I don’t know how I’m expected to provide a home for myself and Charles on such a pittance.”

  “You were contriving one for yourself on one hundred and fifty a year when you met Papa, and doing it very
well too,” he pointed out.

  She sniffed. “Marnie has put you up to this. Let me tell you, it looks very odd to see you chasing her, offering to buy her the Gypperfield mansion.”

  “Yes, the neighbours are more accustomed to see Lady Raiker chase me. You know which Lady Raiker I refer to, Clare? But you needn’t fear Marnie. John is as strict as a Methodist. Only dances on one foot, as they say.”

  “I suppose you and Lady Alice will be announcing the banns once I am got rid of, as you speak of setting up your nursery.

  “I plan to. I don’t know about Sally.”

  She looked up quickly. “What do you mean?”

  “Read the newspapers, Mama. I’m afraid you won’t be receiving an invitation to the nuptials. Now I’m off. I’ll see my banker and arrange the settlement. I’ll see you again before you go. You were very foolish, Clare. I am pretty well to grass now and had intended being more generous with my stepmother. Why did you do it—set on this course that you must have known would lead to nothing but trouble?”

  She examined him with cold, unblinking eyes. “You loved me once. You told me you’d do anything for me. But men are all alike—self-interested.”

  He shook his head and smiled ruefully. “I was certainly a fool, wasn’t I? You told me you’d do anything for me, too, Clare. But when father caught you in my room trying to corner me, it was I who kept my promise. I defended you, let my own father think I was the one at fault, and you stood without saying a word while he ordered me from the house as a rake and unnatural son. Not so much as one word in my defence. You didn’t even show him my letter of apology, and there was nothing in it to incriminate you. I went off with my tail between my legs and protected your name for all those years, and this was the thanks I got for it. You pretended not to know me when I returned, and to add insult to infamy, you concocted that story about my beating my father, and his shooting me in the back. You would do anything, but for no one but yourself. Thank God women are not all alike! It doesn’t seem right to turn you loose on the unsuspecting world. I can only hope you find someone who deserves you.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  “You’re going to the right place for it in all events. Happy hunting, Mama.” He bowed and left, walking at a jaunty gait, the matter already drifting from his mind as he went out the door to head to the Dower House.

  Clare walked to the mirror, fluffed out her curls and examined the corners of her eyes for crows’-feet. Five thousand and her income. She would do very well in Brighton. Now, who could provide her an entrée to the Prince’s pavilion?

  * * *

  Epilogue

  The younger Lady Raiker postponed her nuptials to John Berrigan till her brother-in-law was duly installed in Raiker Hall, so that she might have her reception there. It was a very grand reception; everyone came. Everyone except the dowager Lady Raiker, who was too busy con­triving her entrée to the Prince’s pavilion to waste a second. Not that she was invited, though she did receive a notice of the wedding that she would have used as an invitation had she desired to do so. She had caught the eye of an infamous nobleman who was negotiating with her for some service in return for the desired invitation to the pavilion, and she would not dream of leaving at such a crucial moment.

  The Berrigans decided against Brighton as a honey­moon spot when they considered whom they might be apt to encounter there. They went to the Isle of Wight instead, and Malone and Rorie stayed on at the Dower House to mind Mimi till they returned. Lord Raiker was very happy with his trio of a harem, pointing out to a delighted Malone that he had girls of all ages, just as he liked. Rather than have the Falkners make two trips to Kent, they stayed visiting with Raiker till the three weeks that saw Marnie and John back home.

  The interval was a busy one, with a second wedding in preparation and many visits back and forth between the two houses and into the village to be made. There was as well a quiet inquest held into the death of a horse dealer, with Mr. Horace Rutley the only witness. Lord Dougall was not at all difficult in the matter, and Mr. Rutley was allowed out on suspension under the guardianship of his half brother and friend, Lord Raiker. He took to the fishing business very well, and his mother came all the way from Hampshire to visit him when she learned he was alive. As she disliked the journey so much, she never returned, nor intends to. She says philosophically that her husband knows where to find her if he wants her, but there has been no intimation that he does, and she goes on very happily tending her chickens and flowers.

  Malone has her capable hands full finding a bride for Rutley, which she declares is all he needs to turn into a halfway respectable fellow. “Millie is the one ought to nab him, for she don’t much care who she associates with, a gypsy or a murderer, it’s all one and the same to her.”

  “Now take care, Malaprop,” Kenelm says sternly. “You’re foraging in my harem there. I had first bid on Millie.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m as well propped up as anyone, and if you don’t believe me I’ll lift my skirts and give you a view of my ankles. Beef to the heels, like a Muenster heifer.”

  To keep him in line she threatens to go over to the Berrigan household, “for there’ll be a babe in the basket there before the year’s out, or I’ll know why not. Her well past thirty, and never a son produced yet.”

  “In that case, I shall have to bring an ayah in from India for our children,” he replies, ever inventive.

  “There’ll be no Hindustani servants in my house!” she decrees firmly, revealing unconsciously that she has al­ready claimed Raiker Hall as her own.

  Kenelm tries hard to restore some dignity to the family name. He maintains that as his father had no wits, his stepmama no morals and Marnie no propriety in remarry­ing thirteen months after her widowhood, he must estab­lish a regime of decorum. It is to this end that he goes in a sedate dark jacket to the village and bows formally to everyone. Till he gets to the sweet shop, he does quite well. But a bag of sugarplums detracts greatly from his reserve, particularly as he cannot keep his hands from them till he gets home. His lips become unsteady as he views the sugar bowls on the heads of Beckstead’s customers, and to tell the whole dreadful truth, his eyes misbehave as well when a pretty young girl strolls by. But as Malone says, “He was derived of English girls entirely in India, and the Angel Gabriel hisself might be forgiven for looking.”

  She suspects his bride has a little more than looking to forgive him, and so keeps busy running to the door ten times a minute to see that the Hindustani doesn’t get out of hand before the wedding. It plays havoc with his love­making and his patience.

  “Well, dearest heart,” he says with a wary eye to the door and an arm creeping about her shoulders, “I think I just heard Malaprop dash upstairs. Don’t you think we should take advantage of the next five minutes?”

  “Yes, Kenelm, I want to ask if you managed to get Marnie’s engagement ring back from Clare. I have been meaning to do it.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he says, moving closer to her and tighten­ing his hold.

  “She will be disappointed,” she says, eying her own diamond contentedly.

  “We’ll buy her one.” He kisses her ear, her chin.

  “John won’t like it.”

  “To hell with John.” Kisses are bestowed on her cheek, the edge of her lips.

  “Gentlemen don’t swear in front of ladies.”

  He kisses her on the lips, ignoring his instructions. “I love you. I don’t think I can wait three whole days for our wedding. Couldn’t we get hold of the reverend tonight?”

  “No, you’ll have to wait till Marnie and John get home. And I doubt very much if gentlemen spend every spare moment alone with their brides trying to make love to them.”

  “Indians do,” he says, undismayed, and proceeds to kiss her again, with his ears cocked and his eyes frequently flying to the door for fear of Malaprop, who already rules his roost.

  About the Author

  Joan Smith is a graduate of Queen's U
niversity in Kingston, Ontario, and the Ontario College of Education. She has taught French and English in high school and English in college. When she began writing, her interest in Jane Austen and Lord Byron led to her first choice of genre, the Regency, which she especially liked for its wit and humor.

  She is the author of over a hundred books, including Regencies, many with a background of mystery, for Fawcett and Walker, contemporary mysteries for Berkley, historical mysteries for Fawcett and St. Martin's, romances for Silhouette, along with a few historicals and gothics. She has had books in the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild, had one book condensed in a magazine, and has been on Walden's Bestseller list.

  Her favorite travel destination is England, where she researches her books. Her hobbies are gardening, painting, sculpture and reading. She is married and has three children. A prolific writer, she is currently working on Regencies and various mysteries at her home in Georgetown, Ontario.

  Publishing Information

  Copyright © 1980 by Joan Smith

  Originally published by Fawcett Crest in February, 1981

  Electronically published in 2004 by Belgrave House

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

  http://www.belgravehouse.com

  Electronic sales: neff@belgravehouse.com

  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.