by Joan Smith
“Then I shall just have to get busy and find you a new husband,” Mary said impishly.
“I have decided to be happy as a widow.”
“Oh, Fran! What fustian! You know you want a husband. You don’t want to grow old alone. You should raise a family.”
“I would like a child. Perhaps you’re right. But there is no hurry. I have taken a house nearby. It will be ready in July. Next time I marry, I shall take my time, and know who and what I am marrying.”
“I had known Ronald fifteen years. There were no horrid surprises. He is perfectly satisfactory.”
“Well, I don’t think I want to wait fifteen years!” Francesca laughed.
“Are you forgetting Ronald has a cousin whom you have already known for ten years?” Mary asked with a sapient glint.
“Arthur Travers, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Francesca smiled pleasantly, but something in her balked at the idea of marrying an Arthur Travers. He was just what she had been claiming she wanted. A good, sensible farmer of excellent character and possessing a prosperous estate. She mentally added another requisite to her list. The gentleman must be someone she could love. That, she saw, was going to be the problem.
Chapter Thirteen
Lord Devane, becoming impatient with Maundley, ran him to ground at Whitehall and handed over the necklace, along with the note from Miss Sullivan. He watched as Maundley fingered the diamonds and read the note a second time. His face showed neither pleasure to recover his goods nor sorrow at the trouble he had caused his innocent daughter-in-law. The only discernible emotion at first was anger. “This is some scheme set afoot by Lady Camden,” he said.
“You are mistaken. Lady Camden is not yet aware that the diamonds are recovered. I have undertaken this on my own.”
Maundley wanted to call Devane a liar, but did not wish to go quite so far. His most intimate friends had been horrified at his treatment of David’s widow. The braver of them had even hinted that Lady Camden might be telling the truth. He was not entirely surprised at this outcome, but he was grief-stricken.
“That’s it, then. My son was no better than he should be,” he said, chewing back his feelings.
“That is not quite it, sir. I realize you are shocked to learn the truth about Lord Camden, but you really must call off your lawyer. And as you are a gentleman, I’m sure you will wish to apologize to Lady Camden, and ask her forgiveness for the unconscionable manner in which you have abused her.”
A fiery flash of anger leapt from the man’s tired eyes. “If she’d been a proper wife, none of this would have happened.”
“It is my understanding that Lady Camden was a very proper wife, and indeed a proper widow until she learned of Camden’s carrying-on. I know this is hard to take, but wronging your daughter-in-law does nothing to lighten the blow.” He would have said more had he not been aware of Maundley’s deep distress. This was not the time to harass him, but he meant to get that apology to take to Francesca. To his relief, Maundley suggested it himself.
“Yes, of course. I’ll write to Lady Camden at once. As you are acting on her behalf, even without her knowledge, perhaps you would deliver my apology.”
Devane bowed formally. “That was my intention, sir.”
Maundley wrote his stiff note, and with a pang of conscience added a mention that Lady Camden must feel free to return to Half Moon Street if the move was inconvenient. He assumed Devane was aware of her going and her new address. He also wrote a note to his solicitor, telling him to abandon the case. He gave the former to Lord Devane to deliver. “You will know where to find her, I expect,” he said.
“I do. Thank you, sir.”
Maundley did not reply in words, but just nodded, as a man in a trance. Devane hopped into his curricle and darted immediately to Half Moon Street. Maundley’s sister was to inhabit the house for a few weeks, for the looks of things, and it was her servant who answered the door. “Lady Camden?” she asked, startled. “Why, she’s not here. She’s moved.”
Devane’s dismay was hardly greater than his shock. He had been anticipating the moment when he handed that letter to Francesca. A dozen times he had lived in imagination her initial anger at seeing him, then her wonder as she read the letter, her growing gratitude and joy, and, finally, her repentance. He counted a good deal on her repentance to heal the breach. “Could you tell me her new address?”
“I have no idea where she went.”
“Perhaps if you asked your mistress,” he said, impatience arising at every delay.
The servant went off, but was back in a moment. “She doesn’t know either. No forwarding address was left,” she said.
“Perhaps Lord Maundley ...” he mumbled in confusion.
“He don’t know. She didn’t tell anyone.”
“I see.” He dampened down the rising impatience and returned to his curricle.
Mr. Irwin and Mr. Caine were his likeliest helpers in this fix. He had already learned Irwin’s address. Unfortunately, Mr. Irwin was not home. Grimly determined, he got Caine’s address from Irwin’s butler and darted over to the Albany, a row of bachelors’ apartments off Piccadilly. There was no reply, which seemed odd. One would have thought the butler would answer the door even if the master was out. He called next door, and was told that Mr. Caine had left town.
“When will he be back?”
“Not this Season. He’s given up the apartment.”
“Thank you.”
The remainder of the day was wasted entirely in talking to friends who had no idea where either Lady Camden or Mr. Caine had gone. Devane’s frustration mounted higher at each failure. It was not till that evening that he learned the mysterious destination. His informant was Mr. Irwin, run to ground at Brooke’s. Devane dashed to his table for an interview. Mr. Irwin seemed to be intimate with all the details of the case.
“Mr. Caine has taken Lady Camden off to the country while he fights the legal matter out with Maundley’s solicitor, Rafferty. Rafferty tried to get Lady Camden to sign a release of half her dowry, but Caine is awake on all suits. That would be as good as an admission she had stolen the bauble. He hired Duncan, an excellent chap. Perhaps you know him?”
“Yes.”
“Things are looking up. She may get away with paying only a thousand.”
Devane saw his glory diminishing before his very eyes. It seemed to him that for a purely disinterested friend, Mr. Caine was putting himself to a deal of trouble on Lady Camden’s behalf. The man was obviously in love with her. “She will pay nothing. The ladybird in question returned the necklace to Maundley today,” he said angrily.
“You don’t mean it! Who was she?” Irwin asked.
“The name was Rita something,” he replied vaguely. “What, exactly, do you mean by saying Caine has taken Lady Camden to the country? Do you mean her own home, or his? ...”
“No, no, she wouldn’t want to go to her own home, and he could hardly take her to his bachelor’s place.”
“She could go with her chaperone if an engagement has been announced.”
“But it hasn’t. It was his married sister that Caine mentioned. A Mrs. Travers.”
“Do you have the address?”
“No, I didn’t think to get it, but Mr. Caine is to write to me. It’s in Surrey.”
“Thank you, Mr. Irwin. You have been very helpful, as usual. I wonder if I could impose on you for one more thing? If you would be so kind as to let me know the address as soon as you hear from Mr. Caine.”
“Certainly, Lord Devane,” he said, frowning in curiosity. “Mind you, he may not write for a few days.”
“A few days!” It seemed he was never to find her. “Have you any idea what part of Surrey Mrs. Travers lives in?”
After much head scratching and thinking, Mr. Irwin thought he had heard Caine mention Reigate. “Couldn’t swear to it, mind, but I think he mentioned Redhill being so convenient, and having such good shops. Yes, I’m sure he said something about Rei
gate Castle, now that I think of it. What used to be Reigate Castle, I mean. Nothing but rubble now, I believe. Is there an old Gothic arch there?”
“A Gothic archway was erected a few decades ago.”
“That’s it, then.”
“You don’t know the name of the estate?”
“It had something to do with trees—White Oaks, perhaps. No, that is Lady Camden’s ancestral home.”
“Poplar, mulberry, cedar ...”
“That don’t ring a bell, but you’ll find it, Devane. There cannot be that many trees near Reigate. Places named after trees, I mean to say. Look in the parish records.”
“Yes, an excellent idea.”
Devane drove directly home, planning his next approach to Francesca. He was no longer precisely a knight in shining armor, but at least he had outdone Mr. Caine. He had actually recovered the cursed necklace, and had Maundley’s apology in his pocket, whereas Caine had only hired a solicitor.
Devane regretted that he had told Irwin the case was closed. He might hear from Caine and relay the news, stealing his hard-earned thunder. But Caine didn’t have Maundley’s apology, and if he didn’t write to Mr. Irwin for a few days ... Then, too, Irwin might not reply immediately.
Eagerness for Francesca’s approval was a spur to his actions. He wanted to be the one to tell her himself, to see her face when she heard the news, and read that letter. If he left for Reigate at once, he could be there before morning. He might even find her by afternoon. He called his valet and groom and ordered them to prepare to leave immediately. It would mean driving in the dark, but he’d take his carriage, and try to get some sleep along the way.
Lord Devane’s servants were too well trained to object verbally, but by various delaying tactics they showed their displeasure in being yanked out of the house in the middle of the night. His valet made a tarrying business of preparing his lordship’s clothing and packing. “How long a stay shall we prepare for, milord?”
“Three or four days.”
“Will you require hunting clothes?”
“One does not go to Reigate to hunt, Hudder.”
“Buckskins and topboots, or—”
“Breeches and Hessians.”
“Will you require evening clothes, milord?”
“Of course I will. They have evenings at Reigate, don’t they? I shall also require shirts and cravats and stockings and small cloths. Good God, one would think you had never packed a bag before.”
Hudder took this outburst for an indication he had gone his length, and proceeded with the packing. Next it was the groom’s turn to inquire what carriages were needed, and what mounts.
“I plan to travel in my traveling carriage,” Devane said with heavy irony. “Hudder and a footman can follow in the curricle. I may need a footman.”
“Will you be wanting a mount?”
“No. Just the traveling carriage and my curricle.”
It was an hour before the carriage was ready and Devane made comfortable with a pillow and blanket, to try to catch a few hours’ sleep. As the horses clipped along in the blackness of the night, Devane closed his eyes, but he knew sleep was not going to come easily. He let his mind roam over the past days, wondering how he had made such a muddle of what should have been a perfectly simple affair.
How had he, a gentleman of broad experience, ever mistaken Francesca for anything but a proper lady? Her great crime was to have gone to the Pantheon. There was scarcely a lady in London who had not done so. She, in her inexperience, had gone with a whelp who chose a public place to try to hound her into marrying him. Oh, yes, and she had worn a patch on her breast. A very attractive patch. A very attractive breast, come to think of it.
As for the rest of it, it was Maundley’s tale that she had stolen the diamonds that did the damage. Damn the man. Yet one had to pity him, learning that his beloved son was a knave and a scoundrel. One heard the younger scion—Horton, was it—was more stable. Lady Camden’s reputation was not quite ruined, but it was under fire. Her running away at this time was at least prima facie evidence of guilt. That was ill-done of Caine to have rushed her out of town.
She must be made to see this, and be brought back. With himself as an escort, she would soon be reestablished to not only respectability, but preeminence. He would remove her from that pack of Camden’s she had been running around with. He did not say the word marriage even to himself, but it was in the back of his mind. Who better than a husband to guide her, to show her the ropes and polish her town bronze?
Eventually he slept, and not much later was awakened by the crowing of a rooster. Darkness had required a slow pace, and they were just approaching Reigate. The rising sun edged the eastern horizon in crimson.
It was pointless to begin his search at five o’clock in the morning, so he hired a room at the Swan and caught a few hours’ sleep. At eight he rose, bathed, dressed, had a hasty breakfast, and set out for the closest church to peruse the register. He began with the parish church of St. Mary Magdalen, and by lunchtime he had visited all the local churches. He had encountered more than one Travers family, but none that met his requirements. Unfortunately, he had not thought to learn Mr. Travers’s first name, but he knew at least that he was looking for a Travers fairly recently married to a Miss Caine.
He bought a map, and at lunch he pored over it, noting with dismay how many places he had to visit. Gatton, Leigh Church, Charlwood Church, and a little farther afield, Buckland, Betchworth, Brockham Green. This could take days. He would divide the territory up and send his servants into the countryside to examine the church registers. He would snoop around town. If the Traverses lived nearby, they must visit the local shops. Mr. Travers must execute some business here in the city.
In the afternoon he began his search at the stable yards, thence on to the inns. At times he felt he had gained his end. “Mr. Travers? Oh, aye, he stables his rig here from time to time. It’s old Mac you mean, and not Ted Travers?”
“A youngish fellow, married to a Miss Caine.”
“Oh, now, I don’t know as I’d call Mac young. Seventy something, and young Ted is fifty if he’s a day. But a young fifty. Still spry.”
“Does Ted have a son?”
“All daughters. Spinsters, all five of them. It’s the squinty eye that destroys their looks.”
Next he tried the inn stable yards, with a similar lack of success. He spoke to real estate agents and lawyers and doctors. It seemed the professionals and businessmen of Reigate made a living on people named Travers, but never the Travers he wanted.
His minions returned with a similar lack of success, and by dinnertime Lord Devane feared Mr. Irwin had led him astray. He was temporarily downcast, till it occurred to him that the marriage must have taken place in Miss Caine’s parish. He was unclear as to its precise location, but at least he knew it was close to White Oaks, the Wilson estate.
It was quite by accident that he finally made the discovery that evening in the tap room at the Swan. He went in to have a few ales before retiring, and found himself sharing a table with Mr. York, a prosperous farmer. The farmer mentioned his business almost as soon as he had introduced himself. “I’ve been down at the Elms, buying a brood milcher from Mr. Travers. He has an excellent herd.”
Lord Devane’s glass hit the table with a thud. “Mr. Travers? The Elms! By God, that’s it!”
Mr. York looked at him obliquely, “You know Mr. Travers? His herd is certainly the best hereabouts, but I own I am surprised his fame has spread all the way to London.”
“Is he married to a Miss Caine?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t meet his wife. She had company visiting her. An old school friend, Lady Camden.”
“You must tell me how to reach the Elms.”
“Why, it is no secret, milord. You just take the road southeast out of town and continue five miles.”
Lord Devane rose, looked at the head-and-shoulders clock on a shelf, and sat down again. Nine-thirty was too late to leave for a cal
l. He wouldn’t be there before ten. But tomorrow morning he would see her. “You must allow me to buy you a drink, Mr. York.”
Mr. York looked at his full glass and said, “Why, thank you. A little later, perhaps. Tell me, milord, as you are in the House, what is the official opinion on this war? With Austria on our side, and Blücher leading the Prussians, things are looking up, eh?”
“Things are definitely looking up.”
Chapter Fourteen
Upon first awakening the next morning in a strange room, Francesca was momentarily confused. The window was on the wrong side of the room, and the curtains ... Then memory washed over her, and though she was happy to be at Mary’s, she felt that the past was still not quite behind her. The necklace affair had still to be settled. It bothered her, too, that she had skulked away from town like a thief. Yet, if she had remained there, she would be confined within walls on such a beautiful day as this. Not even the walls of the house on Half Moon Street, but in some shabby rented apartment.
She threw back the coverlet and went to the window. Sunlight streamed on fields as green as emeralds. The branches of the elm trees swayed gently, suggesting a mild breeze. She lifted her eyes to the sky, and saw a fat cloud shaped like a lady’s bonnet.
She wanted to go out barefoot and run through those meadows while the dew was still on the grass. She wanted to gather wildflowers, and to wade in that silvery ripple of stream weaving through the meadow. The water would be icy and fresh. She pushed aside the city gowns in her closet and chose a simple rose-sprigged muslin.
Mary was already at the table when she went belowstairs. “What would you like to do today, Fran?” she asked while Francesca examined the sideboard. She chose eggs, bacon, toast, and even tried some of Ron’s favorite, fried potatoes. “I have the whole day free. Tomorrow the ladies church group is meeting here in the afternoon to discuss the bazaar, but today we are free. Would you like to drive into Redhill? Tom isn’t using the carriage, and they have some very nice shops.”