All that could have been his by marriage to Catherine was now beyond his reach. Still young, in her first season in London, she had been so naive and easy to flatter.
He really never loved Catherine, but he found her attractive, and she had amused him at times. They would have dealt quite well with each other, he thought, until a certain devil with his all-seeing, amber eyes had appeared-almost magically-to whisk away Catherine, and her fortune, into the lap of another gentleman.
Catherine, his golden opportunity, was married to some suitable country gentleman. No doubt a florid, pompous, Windbag; bow-legged with a pot-belly and bulbous, red nose from imbibing too freely with Sir John Barleycorn, he thought maliciously, turning to stare into the wall mirror at his own handsome and dapper figure. She would have been far better off with a Beckingham than with some country bumpkin, he thought conceitedly.
But that Trevegne stepped in to destroy everything, leaving him the laughing stock of London. He was warned that Catherine Bellington was Lord Trevegne's ward, and that he had complete authority over her and her estates until she married—and that only with his approval. Other fortune-hunting friends of his ominously predicted that it would be to little or no purpose to waste precious funds on such a Herculean task; and the devil to pay if you angered Trevegne in the process.
They had good reason to fear; for Lord Trevegne's reputation wasn't based on exaggeration or hearsay. Sir Jason had seen him tooling his black and gold high-perch phaeton, with its perfectly-matched Arabian stallions, with unequalled skill, in fact, Lord Trevegne was supposed to have some Arabian blood in him, which might explain why he had such an affinity with his horses-as if they were soul-mates.
Lord Trevegne's close friends called him Lucifer to his face, and he would only laugh and agree. Sir Jason heard others say that Lord Trevegne wasn't human, and was called the Prince of the Devil because he had beaten unbelievable odds. Few men Sir Jason knew would gamble or wager against him because he never lost. Onlookers to a game would swear that His Lordship had mesmerized the cards, that the strange twisted gold ring on his little finger was a magic ring investing him with mystical powers.
He believed that Trevegne had caused his luck to fall under an evil star; and now he felt the ground crumbling under his feet, and nothing he could do seemed to change his luck. Things were not supposed to have gone this way. He even went to see a gypsy when his luck was running in his favor, just to confirm his ascending star. The gypsy caravan was camped outside the city when he rode out to have his fortune told by some foul-smelling, toothless old hag. The thieving gypsy had cost enough, but she told him his future looked bright; that Lady Luck was riding with him. She had predicted a woman like the reflection of fire before his triumph, and then some gibberish about a looming, black cloud and some dire disaster. He didn't believe that shadowy business about death and disaster because he'd been on a winning streak, and he had yet to meet the woman who was a reflection of fire. But there was no triumph either, only misfortunes, and certainly nothing approaching the magnitude of death, although he had to admit that at times like these, he almost welcomed it.
Lord Trevegne. Always having the upper hand, always triumphant. Sir Jason could not recall a time that Trevegne had not succeeded, and won, whether at cards, or with a woman. He had caused many women to lose their hearts in vain to him. Sir Jason knew many ladies of high quality who would have leapt at the chance to share a bed with him, given the opportunity.
He captivated the most sought after young women of London and Europe, but once he knew they would capitulate, he lost interest, and soon became bored with their protestations of love. He remained a bachelor, turning his broad-shouldered back on them all only to leave them wanting him more than ever. Why Trevegne didn't succumb to the beauty and wealth of some of those women, he could not comprehend. If he had been in Trevegne's place he would now have a fortune in his keeping; along with maybe a castle or chateau from marriage with one of those foreign princesses or baronesses.
By God, Trevegne wasn't human to turn his back on that. If only there were some way of defeating Trevegne—without doing an injury to himself, of course, for he had no intention of being challenged by Trevegne who was a deadly shot with pistols. No, he did not want him to know that he had a mortal enemy in Sir Jason Beckingham; better to let the noble Marquis think that the Joker held nothing against him. Ah, revenge would taste as sweet as honey in his mouth should he contrive some punishment for the almighty Lord Trevegne.
A knock at the door broke into Sir Jason's thoughts as he stood gazing blindly out of the window.
"Yes, yes, do enter!” Sir Jason commanded, turning around at the interruption.
"If Sir Beckingham would be so kind as to come downstairs, 'is dinner be prepared and awaitin' 'im," Tibbitts announced heartily.
"Very' well. I shall be down shortly, and by the way, has Lord Trevegne dined yet?" he asked Tibbitts in a casually bored tone.
"No, 'e just went down," Tibbitts replied. Tibbitts gladly made his way down the narrow, rickety stairs, thinking that the brat was right, that buck had a mean look in his eye, all right. Bet he would be a nasty customer to cross. He shivered as he remembered the cold look in Sir Jason's eyes. His eyes roved over the big, rough plank table set for their dinner, and rested on his other guest standing meditatively before the big roaring fire, availing himself of its heat.
Now there was another gentleman that he would hate to displease, Lord Trevegne, who often stopped at his inn when traveling the long distance to his estates in Cornwall. Aye, he had heard some things about His Lordship all right, and it boded nothing good to anyone who annoyed him. But then what could you expect from one of those foreigners from that inhospitable Cornish coast—a real no-man's-land from what he had heard.
"Damned drafts," grumbled Tibbitts, as he tried to secure the windows more snugly, unsuccessfully cutting off the cool' drafts blowing in to disturb his guests.
“ 'Ere ye are, Sir Beckingham." Tibbitts quickly pulled out a chair for Sir Jason, who had just entered the room, resplendent in a pink velvet coat and yellow breeches, orange and yellow striped vest, and white lacy cravat, stimy starched to stand high, and intricately tied in rows and rows of ruffles.
Lord Trevegne slowly turned from his contemplation of the fire to look at the other guest as he entered, arching a dark brow as he recognized him.
"Evening, Beckingham," Lord Trevegne drawled as he took the seat across from Sir Jason at the table. 'Am I to have the . . . pleasure of your company for this hearty repast we are about to indulge in?"
"Lord Trevegne," Sir Jason acknowledged smoothly, conquering the panic he had felt as he had walked through the door, knowing hoe would come face to face with the Marquis. "It will be my pleasure to share your companionship, M'Lord," he said ingratiatingly, while wishing to plunge his dinner knife through Trevegne's black heart.
He gave Lord Trevegne a curious look and asked conversationally, "You're a hell of a way from London on such a beastly night." He neatly speared a small boiled potato into his mouth, and began to cut a piece of the thick beef, rare and juicy, that filled his plate.
"As it happens, I'm on my way to St. Fleur. But you happen to be out in it also."
St.: Fleur, the Sainted Flower. Now that was a misnomer for the home of Lord Trevegne, Sir Jason thought in amusement. Why not name it St. Demon in honor of its master? "I'm here for the cockfights at Brown's Mill. Supposed to be some tough ones fighting—heard Rawsley had areal killer sent down from York," he explained, watching Trevegne take a thick slice of ham from the platter put down by the serving maid. Her low cut blouse revealed plump shoulders and breasts as she gave Trevegne an inviting look from her dimpled face, before collecting his empty tankard of ale to be refilled.
"I didn't notice your coach out in the yard," Sir Jason inquired. "Surely you aren't traveling all the way to the coast on horseback in this weather?" he demanded, his face mirroring disbel
ief.
Sir Jason shifted uncomfortably, wondering what he had said to cause the flicker of amusement on the Marquis's face.
"I rode on ahead from London, and my coach and valet will follow at a more leisurely pace. They should be here at the inn tomorrow morning," Lord Trevegne answered uncommunicatively as he finished his meal off with a dish of creamy custard sprinkled with cinnamon.
They continued to talk as the evening passed. Tibbitts poured out two big snifters of his best smuggled-in brandy, and presented them to the two men sitting in the big chairs before the fire, and added another log before leaving the room.
They talked trivialities for a good part of an hour, discussing the merits of cockfighting, and who was the best pugilist in London and whether Napoleon would invade the sacred shores of England, until Sir Jason said suddenly, tired of the banalities:
"I would have imagined that you would go up North with your ward, Catherine Bellington." Sir Jason paused for a moment as if in thought. ". . .No, it is not Bellington anymore is it? I do believe I heard somewhere that she had recently married, but I'm afraid I didn't quite catch the name of the fortunate bridegroom."
"Yes, Catherine is now married, and I am not with her because I rather doubt whether the fortunate bridegroom would enjoy having me along on their honeymoon."
"I had no idea that she was betrothed when she was in London. She is quite young, after all. We had an engagement to attend a theatre party when I was suddenly informed that she would be unable to attend because she had left London. No explanation, or reasons given. Leaving rather abruptly, almost spirited away, one might say," Sir Jason continued persistently, some demon driving him to say something he knew he would regret.
"She was in some danger, not from the spirit world, but rather, from the fortune-grabbing outsiders who latch onto society," Trevegne said bluntly, taking a sip of brandy, his golden eyes narrowed and watchful as he stared at Sir Jason. "I merely removed a temptation from their reach. In reality it was quite unnecessary, because whoever might marry Catherine without my consent, would never set eyes upon her fortune—and that would have defeated his purpose also he would have had to deal with me—a guardian who takes his title quite seriously."
"And what of Catherine, shouldn't she have been allowed to choose her own husband? What if she had loved some man in London, and he had loved her? It would not be only her fortune that a man would be attracted to. She happens to be a very lovely young woman."
"And what makes you think that Catherine did not choose the man she wanted to marry?" Lord Trevegne asked, surprising a stunned look on Sir Jason's face. "She has been in love with her husband since they were both in the school-room, and both were very anxious to wed. Catherine merely wanted a taste of London life before settling down in the country, and 'becoming a staid matron,' to quote her own words. Undeniably she is attractive, but I think we all know the names of those who would profit from such an alliance, and of their past records and reputations for trying to latch onto any heiress available. However, I fail to see what the conversation is about, since Catherine was never available, and certainly is not now that she has a husband."
"As you wish, but hypothetically speaking, what if she did not want to marry this man; if she were in love with someone else? Would you have forced her into marriage, even if the man were repugnant to her?"
"Had Catherine not wished to marry, then I would not have forced her to. However, the young man, Beardsley, was acceptable to me and to her, and lives on the neighboring estate, bringing the two estates together nicely into one property. It happens to be fortunate that they are in love, for eventually I would have selected some suitable young man for her future husband, had she not engaged her attentions elsewhere, and with my approval. But why your insistence upon love in the marriage? Few people of my acquaintance—and I imagine yours—have ever married for it; in fact, I seriously doubt if they even consider it, or know what it. means," Lord Trevegne sneered.
"You mean that you would never marry for love?" Sir Jason accused the Marquis.
"What I mean is that I doubt whether such a thing as love exists. When I marry it will be to acquire an heir; not because I am in love with the woman."
"Then you would marry a woman for what she could provide for you!” Beckingham said triumphantly, defending his own reasons for marriage.
"No, not in the sense that I'm quite sure you are implying, Beckingham. I would marry a woman for the one thing she could provide me with that I, by myself, would be incapable of having—an heir to my name and estates. I would be able to provide all else. She could, in fact, come to me as naked as the day she was born. But I should not delude her into thinking that I was in love with her—that is where we differ, I believe. Deception is not my forte."
The Marquis raised his glass in a silent toast to the red-faced Sir Jason, who sat uncomfortably across from him, and then turned his attention to the fire, a scowl settling upon his hawk-like features.
Sir Jason continued to stare at the Marquis' profile, hatred burning in his pale eyes. He's in a foul mood, Sir Jason speculated, tapping his ringed fingers nervously as he searched his mind for some suitable end for the Marquis—there was always murder . . .
Elysia could feet the rush of cold air through her woolen cloak as she pushed open the heavy oak door of the posting inn. Rain poured through the small space the opened door made, as if seeking shelter from the malevolence of the storm outside;
"Pull shut that damned door, or is it your intention to drown us all?" came a threatening voice from a high-backed chair in front of a large, brightly burning fire.
Elysia hastily struggled to close the heavy door against the gale-like wind, but her efforts were to no avail against the tempest raging outside the inn. The door broke from her grasp and swung freely against the wall, allowing another sheet of icy, wet rain to enter the room.
"Hell and damnation! Are you just a fool, or are you trying to freeze us for your own sadistic pleasure? And where is that innkeeper?" the voice threatened again.
A tall form rose from the depths of one of the chairs before the fire, and came menacingly towards Elysia as she stood struggling with the door. She could feel her strength ebbing away. She had been riding on the mail coach since catching it earlier that morning, and she was exhausted.
It had seemed an endless ride across the bleak countryside in the swaying coach; their progress slowed by the muddy roads and torrential rains. She was wedged in between a fat farmer's wife with the odor of the barnyard clinging to her clothing, and a very merry vicar who made his sacraments at the shrine of Bacchus. Between his constant belching, followed by sly apologetic giggles, and the snores of the farmer's wife, she felt she had neared the end of her endurance, but now was confronted by an angry gentleman.
"My dear young woman, would you be so kind as to remove yourself from the doorway so I can secure the door, or would you prefer to stand here in this hellish draft until we both perish from exposure?"
Elysia felt two strong hands grip her elbows as she was propelled aside, and the offending door was swung shut with a slam.
Without awaiting his further displeasure, Elysia moved on into the room toward the area from whence the disagreeable figure had emerged, and stood in front of the crackling fire, stretching out her cold, slender hands to the warmth. The hood of her cape concealed her face from the view of the garishly-clad gentleman in the other chair she had observed as she'd entered. A London dandy, no doubt, she thought disparagingly. She heard the other gentleman return to his chair, and without turning her head to acknowledge him, she continued to warm herself gratefully by the fire.
Tibbitts came bustling in, having been detained in the cellars searching for his best rum, when the coach had arrived. He saw the lone figure, cloaked in a dark blue cape, standing before the fire, the steam rising up from the wet material as it dried, and hurried towards her.
"Welcome to Wayfarer's Rest," he beamed
as the cloaked figure turned. "May or be of service to ye, miss?" he asked in his best innkeeper's voice, thinking her cloak looked a little threadbare, and he wouldn't be getting much of a tip from her.
"Yes, I should like lodging for the night, as I am taking the London coach in the morning," Elysia answered as she lowered her hood from about her head, and the concealing cloak from her shoulders.
Both Sir Jason and Lord Trevegne had been sitting staring into the flames, ignoring the cloaked figure, until the low and husky notes of a very feminine voice startled them from their thoughts. She spoke in a cultured manner that had an unconscious seductiveness about it. They both looked up as she removed her cloak to reveal a perfect profile with a straight, narrow nose and a well-proportioned mouth. But their eyes were attracted, like a moth to flarne, by her bright red-gold curls glowing richly from the light of the fire.
Sir Jason quickly stood up, bowing slightly as he said in his most charming voice, "If you could possibly forgive my rudeness in allowing you to stand, I would gladly offer you my chair, and introduce myself. Sir Jason Beckingham, at your service."
"Thank you," Elysia replied coolly, taking his chair in front of the fire, "I am quite fatigued and chilled to the bone." She shivered slightly, giving Sir Jason an inquiring look from brilliant green eyes as he continued to stand by her chair, staring down at her in a bemused fashion.
"Tibbitts," Sir Jason commanded, "fetch this young lady something warm to drink, and then dinner. Hurry up, man!” He waved away Tibbitts, who had stood silent, his assessment of his latest guest changing rapidly as he saw her face. She might not be too rich in the pocket from the look of her clothes, but she was gentry, that was for sure, and would be expecting better than he'd planned originally. Especially if the gentleman was paying for it. Besides, she just might be one of those eccentric aristocrats who dressed up like a servant just for the fun of it. Hadn't a pack of young bucks, dressed up as coachmen and driving a mail coach come through his inn just last week? They drank all night long, and then nearly overturned the coach with its passengers the following morning before it had even gone halfway down the road. No, he was taking no chances with this one. He'd treat her proper.
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