by Joan Smith
A reluctant smile moved his lips and glowed in the depths of his dark eyes. “A temper! Good. I’m inclined that way myself.” He flicked the whip, and the team resumed their smooth trot. Devane instituted some polite conversation on the countryside and social doings.
“There is a quiet inn just along the road here,” he said later. “Shall we stop for a drink? Driving in the open air is a thirsty business.”
“I would enjoy a drink,” she allowed.
The inn, with an ancient brick façade and a thatched roof, looked like a country cottage. Chickens roaming free in the yard added to the impression, and there was no commercial sign at the door to draw in trade. “Are you sure this is an inn?” she asked.
“It is, but it has only three tables. We few who have discovered it keep it a secret. Jed Puckle brews the best ale in England.”
A boy came out of the yard and took the reins of the curricle. Devane led Lady Camden through a door so low he had to stoop to enter. It seemed very dark inside, after the bright sunlight. By the light from the windows Francesca saw that the parlor of the house had been converted into a minuscule tap room, holding three deal tables, each with four chairs. Hunting prints decorated the walls, and a dull gleam of pewter vessels enlivened the wooden sideboard. One of the tables was occupied by a pair of gentlemen; the other two were empty.
“Are you sure ladies are allowed here?” she asked, peering all around.
“Quite sure. And even if they weren’t, who would see you?”
“A wrong does not consist of getting caught, Lord Devane,” she pointed out, but playfully.
“Except in the case of social rules. It cannot be a crime for you to enjoy a drink, even in a men’s room. But the room, as I said, is for the use of the general public.”
Even as he spoke, a country couple of man and wife came in, laden with parcels, and occupied the last table. “Now you can relax.” He reached across the table and patted her hands.
A fresh-faced country wench came and took their order. “Two of your famous ales,” Devane said.
“I do not drink ale. May I have tea?” Francesca said.
“But Puckle’s ale is famous! I often drive out here for the sole pleasure of tasting it. Two ales and a pot of tea.” The girl left.
“My, you are thirsty! Ordering two ales at a time,” Francesca said.
“One is for you. I insist you try it.”
“I’ll try it, but I tell you in advance, I shan’t like it.”
He leaned across the table and gazed into her eyes. “You should never make up your mind about a thing until you’ve tried it, Lady Camden.” She read some challenge in his words.
The ales and tea were delivered. The dark liquid in the glass Devane held out to her looked lethal. “It tastes better than it looks,” he said.
She sipped and found it tasted as bitter and metallic as other ales she had tried. “Sorry, Lord Devane. It is not my cup of tea. This is,” she added, reaching for the pot.
He watched, bemused, as she daintily lifted the pot and poured the steaming liquid into the cup. “Well, at least you tried it. It is lacking the fortitude to try new things that is contemptible.”
“Like my not laming your team for you?” she asked pertly.
“At least you have driven a jig. A jig is like a cup of tea; driving a team of bloods, on the other hand, is fine wine. I think you are a lady who likes the finer things in life?” His tone made it at least a potential compliment.
Francesca considered it a moment. “I don’t know why you say that when I have just settled for tea and a jig. I liked the country very much when I was there. The assemblies, the local beaux, the occasional journeying group of players. Then, when I first went up to London, I became much too grand for country pleasures. But now I am beginning to think I was too hard on country doings. Society is only ordinary people dressed up in silk and jewelry. Their expenses are higher, and their morals lower. Other than that, there isn’t really much difference between them so far as I can see.”
Devane was silent for a long moment. He had not expected philosophy from a young hellion, much less wisdom. “But would you be happy to go back to the country?”
“Not to my father’s house. He is very strict, and he was not happy with my marriage, though he accepted it in the end. Once a lady has been mistress of her own household, she would find it hard to go back to being a dutiful daughter. I am thinking quite seriously of returning to the country nearby and setting up my own household, however, with Mrs. Denver as my companion.” Mrs. Denver urged this scheme forward from time to time, and as her troubles increased, it was coming to find some favor with Francesca.
He assumed she was in the suds, and forced to rusticate. “It would be cheaper in the long run, I daresay.”
“Oh, it is not a lack of money precisely. Maundley owns the house I live in in London, so that comes free.”
Devane blinked in surprise. “I see.” A moment’s hasty considering told him the young lady might be trying to pressure him into making a proposition immediately. As he watched her sipping her tea, and heard her talking such common sense, it occurred to him that her aim might be marriage rather than a mistress-ship. Marriage had no interest whatsoever for him.
“Do you think you would find amusing friends in the country? You are accustomed now to city flirts.”
“I expect that is a reference to our first meeting, at the Pantheon. Major Stanby, the gentlemen I was with, was a new friend. He wanted to marry me. I declined, and he became unpleasantly persistent. I shouldn’t have gone there, but I was curious to see all the entertainments of London. Many ladies do go, I believe.”
“All the more dashing ones,” he agreed. “When the destination is questionable, however, the escort ought to be totally reliable. A wise lady doesn’t take on two doubtful factors at the same time.”
“Thank you for that tip, Lord Devane.” He seemed easy to talk to, and Francesca decided to try a little discreet flirtation. “Now I understand your bringing me to this somewhat questionable spot—because my escort is unexceptionable. That is a compliment, Lord Devane.” She smiled.
A flash of white teeth showed in his swarthy face. “Such compliments as that make it very difficult for me to misbehave—on the off chance that I had any such thing in mind.”
She laughed lightly. “I doubt you would have come here to do it. It is hardly a bower of bliss. Oh, look, Devane! One of the chickens has gotten into the tap room!”
The hen, a black and white speckled bird, pecked her way across the floor right up to their table, lifted her head, and stared at them with a brightly inquisitive eye.
“I have an aunt who looks like that,” Francesca said.
“It reminds me of Countess Lieven.”
“Yes, the eyes so sharp. They’re good layers, the Speckled Sussex, although they eat more than most chickens.” The serving girl rushed in and shooed the bird out the door. “I miss the animals at home,” Francesca said in a soft, pensive way. “I had an old dog, Smoky. He was just a mongrel, grayish-blue in color, but very intelligent. We got him to keep the foxes away from the chicken coop, but he developed a taste for eggs himself.”
“You had to get rid of him?”
“No, we just kept the henhouse door locked and let him have an occasional cracked egg to eat. Do you like dogs?”
“I have a fine pack of hunting hounds, but I’m not emotionally attached to them. I did have a favorite whelp when I was young, though. She was a terrier. Russet, long ears, sad eyes. She used to hide under the table in the upstairs hall till Papa’s bedroom door closed at night, then sneak into my room. She wasn’t supposed to be there. She was a good dog, but she used to chew the corners of the feather mattress and scatter the feathers about the room.”
“What did you do?”
“Cook put some foul-smelling liquid on the tick, till Yahoo broke her bad habit.”
“That’s a funny name you called her.”
“She was a yahoo. No
manners, no breeding, but I was fond of her.”
They talked about other pets, and childhood experiences. It was not the sort of conversation Devane had in mind when he asked Lady Camden out. After hearing how she had cried for a week when her father drowned some kittens, and admitting to a tear when his donkey was lamed and had to be shot, it seemed hard to even hint at a carte blanche. He decided he would look elsewhere for a mistress, and drove Lady Camden home. She decided he was really very nice when you got to know him. Perhaps it was time to stop paying David back for his sins, and settle down with a new husband.
Lord Devane was worth considering. He had David’s unsteady habits, but he was older than David. Perhaps his wild oats were sown, and he would settle down to proper matrimony. At least he was interesting—and of course very eligible.
Chapter Eight
Francesca looked very much like her old carefree self when she returned from her drive with Lord Devane. Her cheeks were rosy and her smile was genuine, not the sardonic smile she so often wore. Mrs. Denver was sorry to be the bearer of unhappy tidings, but trouble had arisen during her charge’s absence, and it had been preying on her mind since Lord Maundley’s call an hour before. Before Francesca even removed her bonnet she was called into the saloon, where a white-faced Mrs. Denver greeted her.
“What is the matter?” she demanded at once. “Not Papa! He isn’t sick!”
“No, my dear. You had another call from Maundley.”
“Oh, that!” she scoffed.
“He as well as accused you of stealing the necklace. He says if it is not returned immediately, he will hand the matter over to the authorities.”
Francesca felt a trembling inside. “Let me see the letter,” she said, and reached for the ominous paper. She unfolded it with trembling fingers and read the curt note.
“I have taken consultation with my solicitor, who advises me I am within my rights to demand immediate return of the Maundley necklace. Failing this, your widow’s portion will be docked that sum. In addition, I would like you to vacate my house on Half Moon Street as soon as convenient, but not later than the end of May. I strongly advise you to return the necklace. Your reputation is not sterling enough to bear this additional blow. Sincerely, Lord Maundley.”
She handed the note to Mrs. Denver, who quickly perused it.
Lord Maundley had never been friendly, but this note sounded like implacable hatred. And that gratuitous insult about her less than sterling character--that was outrageous. “I have only ten thousand,” Francesca said in a hollow voice. “If he takes half, we shan’t even be able to afford living here.”
“Especially if we have to pay rent besides. We will be quite hard up, even in the country.”
“This is infamous!” She stamped her dainty foot in futile vexation.
“You’ll have to tell him the truth, Fran.”
“I should have told him at the beginning. He wouldn’t believe it now. You noticed that jibe about my reputation. Who has been running to him with tales, I wonder.”
“What are you going to do?”
Francesca frowned, then her lips firmed, and she said coolly, “I am going to ask Lord Devane’s advice.”
“Not Devane!”
“Why not? He is the most knowledgeable acquaintance I have. He might discover who David gave the necklace to, and even if he cannot, he will know what I ought to do. He is a man of the world, older, experienced....”
She had been wanting to share her problem with him earlier. Had he not shown some willingness to help her when she first indicated obliquely that she was in trouble? She had felt strange, too, accepting his sympathy over David’s death, when she now considered it a release rather than a tragedy.
“I think you should speak to Mr. Caine—or perhaps Mr. Irwin might help.’*
“They have been trying to help all along, Auntie. They mean well, but they lack the drive and power. Selby is out of his depth in any dealings of this sort. Devane will know what to do.”
“I don’t see what good can come of this, Fran. You hardly know the man. I think we ought to keep the thing as quiet as possible.”
“I can trust Devane. He is really very nice, Auntie. We had the loveliest outing, talking about dogs and—oh, he is not at all what I thought. Should I write him a note?” Mrs. Denver pinched her lips and shook her head. “Perhaps that is a little forward. I shall go out this evening and try to find a private moment, or at least ask him to call tomorrow morning. Where are my invitations?”
She went to the mantelpiece over the fireplace and picked up a pile of cards, which she shuffled through quickly. “He might be at Lady Jersey’s rout, and if not there, I’ll try the Grahams’ assembly. He’s bound to be at one or the other. Did Selby call?”
“Yes, he came in and frowned and swayed for ten minutes, but that was before Maundley’s note arrived. He said he would drop around at nine, as usual.”
“Excellent. Then he can escort me this evening.”
Mrs. Denver was on thorns, but Francesca, strangely, continued relatively unperturbed. She was sure Lord Devane would know just what she should do. No doubt he had encountered thornier problems in the past. And at least, she regretfully admitted, he probably had an intimate acquaintance with the muslin company, and could discover the identity of the mysterious Rita, if he didn’t know it already. She would tease him about that, after the matter was settled.
Mrs. Denver had a moment alone with Mr. Caine before she called Francesca down that evening, “So the chickens have come home to roost. She cannot say I didn’t warn her,” he sighed.
He was as worried as Mrs. Denver, but Francesca seemed almost exultant as she left the house, her hand on his arm. Mr. Caine thought her bird-witted to drag Lord Devane into the imbroglio, but agreed that Devane would have a better chance of both discovering and recovering the necklace than he or Mr. Irwin.
“He is not a man whose debt I would care to be in, but at least he never called you a thief” was the most cheerful word she could get out of him.
They ran Lord Devane to ground at their first stop, Lady Jersey’s assembly. It was, of course, a squeeze, as any party thrown by a patroness of Almack’s was bound to be. Francesca hadn’t attended Almack’s since David’s departure. She would not ordinarily have attended such a tonnish do as Lady Jersey’s, and assumed that her hostess’s cool greeting was a rebuke for abandoning Almack’s. Few of her particular friends were there, but she spotted Devane shortly after she entered the room. His dark head stood above the crowd. He glanced in her direction, but as she was shorter, she thought perhaps he hadn’t seen her.
As no other gentleman rushed forward to greet her, she stood up with Mr. Caine for the cotillion. Devane must certainly see her now, and would come to her at the dance’s end. When it was over, however, Lord Devane remained with his own set, only changing partners with one of the other gentlemen. Neither did any of her other acquaintances make her welcome. She caught Devane’s eye and waved a merry greeting. Devane bowed, and smiled less merrily.
He hoped Lady Camden was not going to become a pest. She had obviously made herself unwelcome at such a polite party as this. One had to wonder why Lady Jersey had invited her. He was at some pains to avoid Francesca till the first intermission. It was at the refreshment parlor that she beckoned to him across the room. He excused himself from his friends and went toward her at a stiff-legged gait.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, smiling a chilly smile. “Did you wish to speak to me?”
His cool manner made Francesca uncomfortable, but she forged ahead. “I would like a private word with you, if that is possible.”
His smile dwindled to a questioning frown. “This is hardly the optimum time or place for private conversation.”
“Perhaps you could call on me tomorrow, then.”
“I fear tomorrow I shall be in Newmarket, Lady Camden. I suggest you take up your problem with Mr. Caine, or perhaps Lord Maundley. Good evening.” He bowed civilly enough. “Nic
e meeting you again.” Then he was gone.
Francesca stood with Selby, her cheeks stained scarlet. She caught her lower lip between her teeth to hold back the tears of shame. She had been boasting to Mrs. Denver and Selby how nice Devane was, and this was the way he treated her. He would not treat a stranger so shabbily. Why had he done it?
She gave a flounce of her shoulders and said, “Let us go.” She took Mr. Caine by the arm and strode angrily from the room, without nodding to a single guest, or even thanking her hostess.
As the final embarrassment, she met Lord Devane at the door, awaiting his carriage. He was fleeing from her, too. “It is a busy evening,” he said, somewhat ashamed. “The height of the Season--there are half a dozen parties to visit tonight.”
“Don’t let us detain you,” Lady Camden said through stiff lips, and without looking at him.
“My carriage has not arrived yet.” He saw her agitation and felt a moment’s pang at his rough usage. Perhaps it was some quite simple thing she wanted—a voucher to Almack’s, or an introduction to someone. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about, Lady Camden?” he asked warily.
She gave him one quick, angry glare. “Nothing I cannot ask of a friend instead. Sorry to trouble you.” She turned her shoulder on him and spoke to Selby until Devane’s carriage arrived. He looked at her then, planning to say good evening, but she refused to see him.
He felt a disquieting sense of having behaved badly as the carriage took him to Mrs. Graham’s ball. Lady Camden would very likely be there. He would find a moment to apologize, and discover what she wanted. She was not the sort of lady he wished to have much to do with; too respectable for dalliance and too raffish for anything more serious, but that was not to say he should be rude to her.
He soon learned she was not at Lady Graham’s. He did hear her name mentioned, however. An ugly rumor was overheard involving her in some brouhaha about a diamond necklace. Old Maundley was in the boughs about it. Lady Camden, it seemed, had refused to return it to him when her husband died. As she had no heir to inherit the thing, he supposed it ought, by rights, to go back to Maundley until the younger son reached his maturity, though he thought the man a boor to insist on it. Why not let her wear it for the nonce? The new heir was only a schoolboy and would have no need of it for a decade.