by Joan Smith
Francesca brought her plate to the table and began eating. “Let’s not go shopping. I’d like to just putter around outdoors. Walk through the park, talk to the cows, and take the jig for a little drive in the countryside this afternoon.”
Mary tilted her head aside and smiled at her. “Just do the things we used to be so eager to get away from, you mean? Do you remember, back at White Oaks, how you used to crave the excitement of the city?”
“I’m cured. I’ve had a surfeit of city excitement. It was horrid, Mary.”
“It all sounded so wonderful in your letters. You mean the last while was horrid, once you found out about David.”
“I suppose that is what I mean. Now I just want to rusticate, and let my bruised spirits heal. Show me your chickens. You are always boasting of them. I must admit their eggs are delicious. They taste so fresh.”
“Just gathered this morning,” Mary said proudly.
“Cook sprinkles a little chopped chives in them. The herb garden is my prerogative, too.”
“As soon as we’ve admired your chickens, we’ll tour your herb garden.”
“Exciting!” Mary said, and laughed, but she was pleased to see that her old friend had not grown beyond such simple pleasures. She had been entertaining the fear that Francesca would have turned into a grand lady, but her toilette and her interests belied that fear.
“You must not think I am utterly sunk to raising chickens and chives. Your arrival is timely. There is an assembly tomorrow evening. Not the big do in Reigate, but Mrs. Huddleston is giving a small private assembly. I shall have a rout, too, while you are here.”
These functions meant little to Francesca, but she sensed that they featured large in Mary’s social life, and expressed the proper interest.
During the day the ladies reestablished their easy footing of previous times. It was pleasant to drive along the country lanes in a pony cart, an umbrella warding off the sun’s punishing rays. While they were gone Selby was busy inventing other pleasures for them. He rooted out the croquet mallets, balls, hoops, and pegs, and set up a course in the park. Mrs. Denver was called upon to make the fourth player, and the afternoon was idled away with this game. Mary served lemonade and cake in lieu of afternoon tea.
In the evening Fran helped make purses for the church bazaar, and fended off Mary’s idea of driving over to Fernbank to visit Mr. Arthur Travers later in the week.
“Very well,” Mary said, “but I give you fair warning, I shall invite him to dinner on Sunday, so prepare your best bib and tucker.”
The next day was similarly free of any but the most simple diversions. In the morning Mary had her way and drove Fran and Mrs. Denver over to Redhill to visit the shops. With an air of daring she suggested they dine at the inn. Mrs. Travers was told, when they returned to the Elms, that a gentleman had called for Lady Camden. He hadn’t left his name, but he was from London. He said he would return in the afternoon.
“It must be Mr. Irwin,” Francesca said when the message was relayed. “Are you sure he did not leave his name?”
No, but his description, “a tall, good-looking city gentleman,” sounded like Mr. Irwin.
“I am happy he is coming, for I shall be busy with my church group for a few hours this afternoon,” Mary reminded her. “Is he a beau, Fran?”
“No, he is really Selby’s friend, but he helped me with that wretched necklace business. Perhaps he will take your place for another game of croquet while you attend your meeting.”
Lord Devane, who had called at the Elms that morning, figured that Lady Camden should be back from her expedition to Redhill by three, and at five minutes to three his curricle rolled up the drive of the Elms. Lady Camden had gone to the garden with a book to read while awaiting her caller. She was not reading, however, but sitting with the book on her lap, daydreaming, when the servant approached and said, wide-eyed with alarm, “It’s Lord Devane to see you, milady.”
The book fell from Francesca’s fingers, and her face turned as white as paper. “How dare he! I am not at home to Lord Devane. Pray tell him so.”
“But he’s a lord,” the servant replied in consternation. Showing him in had been harrowing enough. How was she to turn him away?
“He is a thoroughgoing wretch. If he makes any trouble, call Mr. Caine.” She rose and went into the house, not to grant Lord Devane an audience, but to make sure he did not charge his way in.
The servant went, trembling, to do as she was bid. “She says to tell you she’s not at home. Sorry, milord,” she said, red in the face.
Devane’s black brows drew together in a quick frown. He took a deep breath, wanting to lash out at someone. Was this his reward for dashing about the city and countryside to help Lady Camden? “Pray tell her it is extremely important. A matter to her advantage,” he said through thin lips.
The servant ran Lady Camden to ground in the morning parlor. Something drew Francesca to Devane like a magnet, but this was as close as she could go without being seen. Devane’s message was delivered. Lady Camden pokered up and replied, “Pray tell Lord Devane that my idea of advantage is quite at odds with his. I have no desire to see him, ever.”
“He said it’s important. Extremely important.”
“Not to me,” she said, and turned to stride from the room.
The servant returned to the door. “She says your idea of advantage and hers are at odds. She won’t see you, milord, ever.”
Devane’s nostrils flared dangerously. He fingered the letter from Maundley and seriously considered the feasibility of forcing his way in. “May I speak to Mrs. Travers, if you please?” he said.
“She’s at a meeting. In there,” the servant added, tossing her head toward the saloon. The buzz of female voices at work was audible behind the door.
“Is it a cabinet meeting, that she cannot be disturbed?” he demanded.
“No, a church meeting. I’ll get her.”
Mrs. Travers was summoned with the important words, “Lord Devane would like a word, ma’am. Very insistent, he is.”
“Lord Devane?” Mary said, puzzled. “Who can he be?”
“A friend of Lady Camden’s, only she won’t speak to him.”
Mary was highly curious, and not entirely displeased to be summoned by a lord in front of her friends. “I had best see what he wants,” she said, and went to the door.
During the brief hiatus Devane had assumed his most beguiling expression. He could usually charm the ladies if he had a mind to, and it seemed he was going to require a conspirator in this house to reach Francesca.
Mary looked at him and saw an extremely elegant gentleman wearing an intriguing smile. Authority exuded from him like spring sap from a pine tree. He performed a bow of exquisite grace and said, “You cannot be Mrs. Travers! I expected an older lady.”
She blushed and smiled prettily. “I am indeed Mrs. Travers, Lord Devane. How can I help you?”
“Perhaps if we could have a moment in private?”
She led him into her husband’s study. “It is about Fran, Lady Camden, I believe?”
“Precisely. We have had a—falling out,” he said with a sad grimace. “She refuses to see me, but I have a most important matter to discuss with her. Perhaps if you told her it is about the diamond neck—” He came to an abrupt halt.
“I am in her confidence in the matter,” Mary said simply.
“Oh, good.” He smiled again, more naturally. “I feared I had put my foot in it there. I have news that I think she will wish to hear.”
If there was one thing Mary knew about Fran, it was that she was as stubborn as a mule. If she had refused to see this terribly handsome Lord Devane, she would not be dissuaded. “If you would care to tell me the nature of the news ...”
Devane fingered the letter from Maundley. He wanted to be there when Francesca read it, but as that was impossible, he handed it to Mrs. Travers. “I shall await her reply,” he said.
Mary went into the hall, where she met her serva
nt. “Where is Lady Camden?”
“She’s gone up to her room,” the servant said. “Do you want me to take that up to her ladyship?”
“No, I shall take it myself.”
She darted upstairs, tapped at the door, and rushed into Francesca’s room, waving the letter. “Fran, what is amiss with Lord Devane that you are treating him so shabbily?” she scolded. “He is terribly handsome, and I know he is in love with you. He sent this note. It’s about the diamonds.”
“He is in love with himself,” Francesca retorted, but she took the letter and tore it open. That gratifying range of emotions Devane had been imagining did not occur. She frowned and read it twice, then a third time.
“I have this day recovered the Maundley necklace. I apologize most sincerely for thinking you were involved in its disappearance, and humbly ask your forgiveness. Naturally I shall inform my solicitor of this turn. You must feel free to return to Half Moon Street if you so desire. Sincerely, Maundley.”
Francesca looked bewildered. “Maundley has recovered the necklace,” she said, still wondering how it had happened. “How did Devane come to know of it? What has it to do with him, that he is delivering me this letter?” she demanded as curiosity gave way to annoyance.
“I wager it was Devane who recovered it. You must see him, Fran. He has come all the way from London.”
“How could he have recovered it? He would not even believe it was stolen.”
“Why don’t you ask him? He is waiting downstairs. I think it uncommonly sly of you never to have mentioned his name.”
“I told him I would not see him—ever. How dare he— oh, he is the most exasperating man. I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if he bought the thing back from David’s mistress on purpose to put me in his debt.”
“Is that where he wishes to place you? I wonder why,” Mary said archly.
“Because he would like to watch me cringe and grovel. He has outfoxed himself if that is what he has done. Pray deliver my thanks to Lord Devane, but I am indisposed. I cannot see him.” She rose and paced the room, fighting back the urge to run downstairs as fast as her legs could carry her.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“What more is necessary for the simple delivery of a letter?”
“Oh, Fran.” Francesca lifted her chin and looked out the window. There was no misreading her mood. “Very well, but I think you are being unnaturally stubborn.”
Mary returned below, determined to discover the whole course and nature of her friend’s relationship with Lord Devane. The ladies’ group must wait. This was more important, and the ladies had plenty to gossip about in the meanwhile. It was not every day that their meeting was enlivened by such romantic goings-on.
She smiled pleasantly as she entered. Devane was not seated, but pacing impatiently. She noticed his eyes eagerly scanning the empty space behind her in hopes of seeing Fran there. “Lady Camden is very grateful to you for delivering that letter, sir. She asked me to convey her thanks. May I offer you a glass of wine?”
“Thank you.”
Ronald kept but an inferior sort of claret in his office, to aid his nocturnal battle with the bookkeeping, but she poured two glasses and they both sat down. “What did she say?” he asked at once.
“She was very pleased, as I said. She was curious to learn how it came that you were delivering the note from Lord Maundley.”
“I insisted he write it when I took the necklace to him.”
“You took it to him! But how exciting, Lord Devane. I am sure Fran does not know that. How did you recover it?”
He was easily tempted into relating the tale of his chivalry, sure that it would all be relayed to Francesca. “It is not a story I can tell without blushing, for Lord Camden was not exactly ...”
Mary shook her head sadly. “I know. He was a sad trial to her—but posthumously, of course, which made it worse in a way. She could not repay him as he deserved. Fran felt David had given the jewelry to a—a female friend,” she said, coloring modestly at such licentiousness. Devane noticed, and thought how innocent these country girls were. “She could hardly credit a thing like that, you know, being reared so carefully as she was. Her papa is a byword for puritanism.”
“Yes, Lord Camden did give it to a female. I investigated and discovered the recipient, paid her a visit with a Bow Street Runner and a search warrant, and the thing was done.”
Mary’s eyes were large with admiration. “But how did you discover the woman’s identity? Selby—my brother, Mr. Caine, has been trying to discover that for months.”
“One has to know what palms to grease,” he said, making little of it.
“So much bother and expense as you have been to. You must think very highly of Lady Camden,” she said leadingly.
“More highly than she thinks of me, I fear.”
“Perhaps when I tell her what you have told me ... But there is no point in thinking she will cave in without time to change her tune. Fran is most stubborn.”
A small, wan smile tugged at Devane’s lips. “And has the devil’s own temper,” he added.
“Are you staying in the neighborhood for long?”
“Until she condescends to see me,” he replied with an air of injury. This won an approving nod from his hostess.
“There is an assembly tomorrow evening. Mrs. Huddleston, the hostess, is in my saloon at this moment. If you would care to attend, I am sure she would be delighted to have you.”
“Fran can hardly throw a book at my head in a polite saloon.” He smiled. “Would I be imposing too rudely to accept your generous offer?”
Mary was so bowled over by Devane that he could have imposed on her for anything but her son. “You’ll be the making of her do. We don’t get many fine lords. Lady Camden and Lord Devane—this one will go down in history.”
“Let us hope it is not recorded as a battle. Perhaps we should keep it a secret that I will attend.”
“Yes, an excellent notion. We don’t want Fran digging in her heels and staying at home. Where are you putting up, Lord Devane? I would invite you to stay with us, but under the circumstances ...”
“No, no, it is not to be thought of. I am at the Swan, in Reigate. I can be reached there if Lady Camden wishes to see me before the assembly,”
“Yes, if I can talk her out of her sulks.” She felt easy enough with Devane to add, “What did you do to get in her black books? Fran is mulish, but she usually requires a good cause to set her off.”
He rose and bowed. “I must leave you ladies some subject for gossip, ma’am. Ask your friend. The secret is hers to tell or not, as she wishes. But I might as well admit, she had good cause to distrust me. If she reveals my disgrace, you might deliver my heartfelt apologies. I was wrong, and I deeply regret any pain I have caused her.”
Mary thought that was very prettily said and smiled her own forgiveness without hearing the crime. She gave him directions to Mrs. Huddleston’s house and said he would undoubtedly be receiving an invitation at the Swan that same day.
Very little church bazaar work got done that afternoon. Mary caused as much sensation as a simple country matron could wish when she returned to her saloon. The precise nature of Devane’s call was not revealed, of course, but when she asked Mrs. Huddleston if she would mind very much sending Lord Devane an invitation to her assembly, no one cared why he was there. They assumed, and were not discouraged in the assumption by Mrs. Travers, that it was an affair of the heart involving Lady Camden.
From there, the subject turned to quick additions to the assembly to make it worthy of two noble guests. The two fiddlers and a pianoforte must be augmented by a cello, and the orgeat with champagne. Every lady in the room wished to dart over to Redhill for new feathers or gloves or silk stockings so the meeting broke up quickly, and Mary was free to go upstairs as she had been longing to do.
Francesca had been studying that letter from Maundley and trying to conjure Devane’s part in it. He had bought the neckl
ace from Rita, thinking to force her into becoming his mistress. And to go chasing her into the country, barging into her friend’s house—the more she thought of it, the more she feared it might actually come to a duel.
She was ready to do battle with someone when Mary came tapping at her door. “I finally got rid of the ladies,” Mary said, dropping onto the bed.
“What did Devane say?” Fran asked in a quiet voice, but a voice laden with mistrust.
“I got the whole story from him. He was eager to tell it.” She relayed Devane’s part in the affair, diminishing nothing of his concern and efficacy.
“He didn’t buy the necklace back? You’re sure he didn’t pay for it?”
“Indeed he did not. Lord Devane is no Johnny Raw. He is up to all the rigs. He got a search warrant and a Bow Street officer to go with him. And he made Maundley write that apology, too.”
“That was certainly well done of him,” Fran admitted, somewhat mollified. “I expect I should write a note, thanking him.”
“He is putting up at the Swan in Reigate for a few days. We could drop around ...”
“No! No, but I must write a note.”
“Why do you not wish to see him, Fran?”
“We do not get along. We would be sure to come to cuffs before the meeting was over.”
“What do you usually come to cuffs about? I thought him charming, and very conversable.”
“He can be charming and conversable; he can also be impossible.”
Mary gave an impatient tsk. “I wish you would tell me the truth. Whatever it is, Lord Devane admitted he was wrong, and he told me he is very sorry.”
Fran smiled softly. “Did he say so? Well, perhaps I shall write a very nice note.”
Mary jumped up from the bed. “We have time to get to the Swan before dinner.”
“Oh, no. I mean to write. If Devane wishes to pursue the matter further, he must tuck his tail between his legs and come to me.”
“He did not strike me as a gent who would be much good at truckling, Fran. Don’t let this stubbornness of yours go too far. I expect there are plenty of ladies on the catch for Devane in London. Well-dowered debs,” she added, to remind her friend she was a widow. Widows were not held in such high esteem as maidens.