by Annis Bell
Hettie floundered around and kicked her feet, which were up in the air. “What was that? Did we hit a pothole?”
Moments later, the coachman, Rogers, groaned and appeared at the door, and then Blount finally returned from his search for a place to spend the night, and the two men freed the women from their predicament. The coach was tipped half onto one side, a wheel missing.
“Ma’am, you’re bleeding,” cried Hettie, who, apart from fainting, was unhurt.
Hettie and Blount sat Jane down on a case that had fallen from the roof, and Blount examined her face. “Some small cuts from the window glass. Just scratches. When we get to the guesthouse, we should send for a doctor. My God, Rogers, how could this happen?”
The coachman rubbed the back of his head. His weathered, honest face seemed perplexed. “Ma’am, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I checked the wheels, the belts, the harness, everything. Everything was in top shape this morning. All I did was adjust the brakes. A little pothole should not have made a wheel come off like that. And then I took a blow on the head! At least, that’s what it feels like. I don’t understand it.”
“Nonsense,” Blount snapped at the coachman, but Jane interrupted him.
“No, unfortunately, it does make sense. This was no accident.” Jane told them about the stranger she saw, then felt a dull, throbbing pain in her shoulder.
“Damn it, this should not have happened!” Blount swore. “He waited until I’d ridden ahead.”
Jane looked up and down the road. There was only one lane, and bushes and trees lined both sides. Someone could disappear easily into any small copse or thicket. A little farther back the moorlands began, and if you knew your way around them, no one would find you there.
Hettie had taken a linen cloth from one of their travel bags to clean Jane’s wounds. “The bleeding has stopped, thank heavens. Do we have any alcohol?”
“Rogers?” Blount barked the question, and the coachman fished a flask from beneath the driver’s seat.
The strong alcohol burned when it made contact with the cuts, and Jane winced. When she tried to move her left arm, a sharp pain shot through it. “Hettie, you’re too heavy. You’ve crushed my shoulder.”
Hettie’s big round eyes filled with tears. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to!”
“I know that, but from now on, no more sweets,” said Jane, trying to smile through gritted teeth.
“No, ma’am,” Hettie murmured.
“Do we go for help? Is the guesthouse in a village?” Rogers asked, and took a deep swig from the liquor flask when Hettie handed it back to him.
Blount shook his head, looked at the half-tipped coach, and said, “We’ll put the wheel back on provisionally. It will hold as far as the guesthouse. We can’t leave the women here alone. Do you have any sort of weapon?”
“Just a stick,” the coachman replied sheepishly.
“I think someone’s hackles are up at the questions I’m asking, and that we’re getting closer to Mary,” said Jane, observing the dark expression on Blount’s face.
“Then you also know that the people we’re dealing with won’t shy away from anything, my lady.”
Jane sighed and rubbed her arm gingerly. “And if it was really no more than an accident?”
Blount snorted scornfully, shrugged off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. “The captain will tell you soon enough what he thinks of that.”
Ignoring the remark, Jane held her sore arm out to Hettie. “It’s like an elephant fell on it.”
“Oh.” Hettie rummaged unhappily through a travel bag for medicine. “Laudanum for the pain, ma’am?” she asked.
“And turn myself into a hysterical wreck like Violet Sutton?” Jane snapped back.
26.
London, May 1860
Hettie could not get enough of the hustle and bustle of London. There were street vendors who sold barrels of herring, while others sold costume jewelry and lace; bootblacks; an Italian harpist; a street theater doing their best with Punch and Judy—the maid was thrilled by all of it. If Jane did not keep a tight rein on her, she would have wasted every penny she had on useless trinkets and slick con men.
“Oh, look, ma’am!” she cried.
But Jane kept on walking and pushed open the gate to the London townhouse on Seymour Street. They had been there only for three days, so Jane did not think any worse of her young maid for all her effusive delight. Hettie would be longing to return to the country soon enough. Certainly, she would once the weather grew warmer and the stink of the sewers lay over the city like a putrid blanket.
It was only a few steps from the gate to the front door, but that was enough space for a lovely front garden with a magnificent weeping willow, and the house was freestanding. It was two stories, and was roomier than it looked from the outside. From what Wescott had implied about the place, Jane had expected something decidedly more modest and was pleasantly surprised at what she found. The windows were large and the rooms well lit, the grounds were neatly trimmed and cultivated, and there was a conservatory and a terrace that led out to a garden and pond behind. Seymour Street led off Portman Square, and in good weather it was an easy stroll to Hyde Park or Grosvenor Square, where some of London’s grandest homes stood, among them Lady Alison’s and the house of the Pembrokes.
Jane swung the door knocker, and the door opened a moment later. Levi, a taciturn older man with immaculate manners and an eastern European accent, greeted her. Jane could only guess at the man’s origins, but she imagined he came from somewhere in the Caucasus. He also played violin extremely well, as Jane had discovered one evening. His son, Josiah, was also part of the household, a slender young boy with large, intelligent eyes. Blount played the role of butler and caretaker, but during his absence, Levi seemed to have taken over those duties.
“Is Mr. Wescott home?” Jane asked as she handed Levi her umbrella.
“No, my lady. But he wanted me to inform you that he would like you to dress for dinner this evening. The coach has been ordered for eight o’clock,” said Levi in his silky voice.
“Where have we been invited?” Jane asked.
“To the Duke of Rutland.”
“Thank you.” Surprised, Jane climbed the stairs.
Hettie came up behind her, slightly out of breath. “Ma’am! Are you going out to the Rutlands’ this evening?”
“Yes, it would appear I am.” Jane was not happy at the way Wescott was using her. But social obligations were part of their agreement. She had already sent a message to Alison to tell her she was in the city. With a little luck, Alison would be present that evening. And with a little less luck, she would also see Violet and Hargrave.
“Then we should find an especially beautiful dress for you. Black?” asked Hettie doubtfully, and when Jane shook her head, her maid beamed. Eagerly, she helped her mistress out of the jacket she was wearing and carried it into the dressing room. From there, a door opened into a luxurious bathroom.
Jane’s bedroom was not particularly large, but decorated in warm ocher tones. A double door led into Wescott’s bedroom next door, but the door was locked with the key on Wescott’s side, and Jane had not yet caught a glimpse of the interior. Her husband had only greeted her briefly on their arrival and had been out constantly ever since. Late at night, she sometimes heard noises coming from his room, but when she came down for breakfast he was already long gone.
Just before eight, Jane gave herself a final check in the mirror. “Hettie, you’re a treasure!”
Her hair had been pinned up artfully. A single lock of chestnut hair curled at her neck, around which she wore an emerald necklace. The color of the precious stones matched that of her elegant dress and made Jane’s complexion glow.
“You look beautiful, my lady! I would love to see you dancing in this dress.” The girl twirled dreamily on the spot.
&n
bsp; “It won’t come to that this evening. We will have dinner, and after that I will have to put up with boring conversations. Have you put out the cape with the fur collar?”
Hettie ran into the next room and returned carrying the sumptuous cape, which would create precisely the right impression on such an evening.
If Jane had been thinking that Wescott would meet her at the door to her room, she was disappointed. Well, she was perfectly capable of going down alone.
Levi was waiting for her in the hall. He opened the door and walked with her as far as the gate. “I wish you a pleasant evening, my lady.”
The coach was already waiting in the street. Few houses in London had their own stables, and consequently most of the upper class relied on rented coaches. Jane had traveled by coach to Rosewood Hall and from there to the train station in Salisbury. In Salisbury, she had sent Rogers back to Cornwall. The train trip to London was shorter and more comfortable.
The moment Levi swung open the squeaky front gate, the coach door opened and Wescott jumped down to the sidewalk. “I would have come earlier, but it was simply not possible. After you, Jane.” He reached out one hand and helped her climb into the interior, then gave the coachman a signal to go.
When he sat opposite her, she realized that he was wearing a dinner jacket. “You’ve already changed?”
The suspicion came to her that he perhaps had a lover and was spending his time there. The notion did not sit well with her, though given the nature of their agreement, she knew she had no right to be angry.
He seemed a little tired and swept the hair out of his face. “I was at the club. It is, in fact, the true home of many men, as you no doubt know.”
“My experience in this field is rather limited, but if you say so, then I guess that’s how it is,” she replied archly.
“Jane.” There was warmth and a certain sadness in his tone. He leaned forward and reached for her hand.
Jane flinched instinctively, and Wescott looked at her, taken aback. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she quickly reassured him. “The accident. Hettie was thrown on top of me, and I managed to twist my arm.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Does it matter?” she asked and took her hand back. “I’m here, as you wanted me to be.”
His dark eyes looked at her earnestly, and a crease formed between them. “Why do you say that?”
“Why should it bother you? Since I arrived, I’ve seen you but once, and then only briefly. In three days, all I’ve heard from you is an order to accompany you to the Rutlands’.”
“It was no order, Jane. You could have refused.” He leaned back on the seat and stretched his long legs out beside hers.
“I am holding to our agreement. If I find myself indisposed, I will let you know.” The coach felt far too small for her, and the air inside oppressive, but that was because of the corset, which Hettie had laced far too tightly.
“You look exceptionally beautiful, Jane.”
She shot him an irritated look from beneath lowered eyelids. “I can hardly breathe, but thank you. If I look like I’m going to faint, feel free to administer smelling salts.” She shook the bag she carried.
Wescott looked at her in surprise, then laughed so sincerely that Jane could only smile. Finally, he leaned forward again and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “This could be an amusing evening after all. Oh, you didn’t tell me how the visit to your cousin went.”
“We argued, as usual. Bridget was even more insufferable than ever. Matthew flapped the promissory notes in my face in triumph.” She sighed. “They’re real, as far as I can tell. My God, how I hate him for having them!”
“Were you able to see exactly where he keeps them?”
“In my uncle’s desk. Ah! He actually sat at Uncle Henry’s desk and acted like—” She broke off. What she had wanted to say suddenly felt preposterous.
“Like the Lord of Pembroke,” said Wescott gently. “Jane, he possesses the title now, though he doesn’t deserve it.”
Again, she found herself crying. Crying now, just before they were due at the duke’s house. “Sorry.”
But before she could find a handkerchief in her purse, she found one pressed into her hand. “Shall I have the coachman drive us around the block?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes. The thought of Rosewood Hall and her cousin was unbearable. It had been her home, and her memories of happier days there had overwhelmed her the minute she set foot in the hallway. And Matthew couldn’t wait to rub her nose in his newfound superiority, to humiliate her in every way he could.
“We grew up together! How can he do this to me?”
“The people close to us can hurt us most easily. It is contemptible, because it is simple. He knows his father loved you, and that is reason enough for him to hate you. Jealousy is an evil thing, Jane.” He stroked her cheek gently and placed one finger under her chin, making her look him in the eye. “You are a decent person. He is not. And we’ve arrived.”
A jolt ran through the carriage as it jerked to a stop. Jane slipped forward, against Wescott’s shoulder. But she resisted her impulse to lean on him. Instead, she took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and put on a smile.
Berkeley Square was among the most prestigious addresses in London. Grand mansions designed by Robert Adams vied with each other for the attention of passersby. Close to the Rutlands’ was number thirty-eight, one of the most magnificent homes. It belonged to the Countess of Jersey, a famous society lady and for many years a patroness of Almack’s tea and dance club.
Wescott held out his arm for Jane to take and gave her an encouraging look. “Ready?”
“Always.”
They followed a lighted path paved with pale marble to the columns at the entrance of the Rutlands’ mansion. In the darkness, the formidable size of the place could only be guessed at. Music rang from brightly lit windows on the ground floor. A liveried servant led them into the main hall, which itself was big enough to house a major society ball. Pink marble, antique statues, and valuable tapestries caught Jane’s eye.
“Are you sure this is just a dinner and not a party?” Jane whispered to Wescott.
“The duke and his wife love pomp and ceremony. You’ve met them, haven’t you?”
Jane recalled the gaudily made-up woman she’d met at Hargrave’s. “Hmm. Which club do you go to, by the way?”
“Beg pardon?” Wescott said in surprise.
“Which club? A wife ought to know that.”
“Brooks’s,” he murmured.
“Who would have thought? That’s the meeting place of the aristocrats. I’ve heard that the most eccentric wagers are made there. Don’t you bump into your father?”
“No. He’s a member of Boodle’s. The conservatives are among friends there.” As soon as he mentioned his father, his tone grew bitter.
“I would have thought you were more a Rag type,” she said airily as she spotted another servant approaching them. The established Army and Navy Club was better known as the Rag.
“I keep up membership of several clubs, according to my needs, if you really must know.”
“I really must.”
The servant bowed to them and said, “This way, please.”
They were led into a music room, where a string quartet was playing. There were a dozen guests in all, a manageable number, and to Jane’s great joy she immediately spied the back of a petite woman with long blond hair. Alison and Thomas were there! The next moment, though, her delight was tempered somewhat when she saw Lord Hargrave and his sister and the chiseled features of Mr. Devereaux.
Into the fray, thought Jane. She raised her eyebrows expectantly as the Duke of Rutland and his flamboyantly dressed wife came toward them.
Florence Rutland behaved as if Jane were a best friend she hadn’t seen in years. “My dear Lady Jane, how delightful to have you
visit us!”
Jane and Florence exchanged compliments—superficial, empty phrases—then Jane moved on to the other guests. When she came to Violet, she was shocked at the gray shadows under her eyes, too dark even for powder to conceal. But before she could talk to Hargrave’s sister at any length, Violet’s brother joined them.
His dinner jacket was particularly elegant, tailored by one of the most expensive gentlemen’s outfitters in London, Jane assumed, just like the duke’s. The two men seemed to maintain a close connection, and Devereaux appeared to belong to the same charmed circle.
“You’ve met? Mr. Devereaux, Lady Jane,” Lord Hargrave said, introducing his friend.
Devereaux took Jane’s hand and insinuated a kiss. He eyed her appreciatively. “You lend the evening a special grace, my lady. I very much regret that I came too late several months ago.”
Wescott, in conversation with Rutland, moved close beside his wife and brushed his hand lightly over her back. “I hope we won’t have to get out the dueling pistols, Charles.”
Devereaux laughed. “I’m a good loser, as you well know.” His words sounded ambiguous, almost lewd.
Jane did not like the way the men were talking about her—and about things of which she knew nothing. Some past lover the two men had shared? Gambling debts?
“Please excuse me,” she said brusquely, leaving Wescott and Devereaux to their conversation and joining her friend Alison, who was likewise looking for an opportunity to be with Jane.
Alison, as usual, looked stunning. Motherhood had given her a bright, lively charm. The two women embraced and Jane nearly burst into tears. “You look gorgeous, Ally. I’ve missed you so much and, my God, I have a lot to tell you. Can we escape this rabble for a few minutes?”
Looking concerned, Alison hooked her arm through Jane’s. They took a few steps toward the musicians, and Alison said, “You look wonderful, Jane, but I must say rather strained. I only know what you’ve mentioned in your letters. Is it to do with your husband?”