by Edith Layton
But the joys one could experience during a night on the town in the company of several half-sprung young cronies, with an unknown female as partner, were as nothing when compared to that which one could achieve with a loved one. For young Nicholas found that not only was there simple pleasure to be found in a lover’s arms, there was the infinite pleasure of providing pleasure to a loved one as well. In very short order, Nicholas decided that he loved his merry little Ivy, and since he loved her, she must be his forever.
It was not guilt for his seduction of her that spurred his offer. Even though she was his junior by a year, he knew he was not the first to love her, and some small question remained in his mind as to who had initiated whose seduction in the first place. He was disappointed and regretted her lapse when he became aware of her previous loss of virtue, but he could not blame her in the least, not after he heard the tale she told. He quite understood how such a vulnerable girl could have been misled by an elderly, fatherly gentleman, as she had been, and he grieved for the betrayal of her innocence just as she did. No, it was not honor which prompted him, it was simply that he adored her.
He knew that she was exactly right for him. He needed her blithe spirits, just as she needed someone to protect and watch over her. Her buoyant temperament would please his mama, her sense of humor would tickle his sisters, and her black cherry eyes and midnight ringlets would enchant his steppapa. He believed that her low birth would be no impediment. His family could never be so top-lofty, he told her, and as they loved him, so they would allow him to wed where he loved.
So he was completely shattered when they not only did not condone his engagement to her, but demanded his immediate estrangement from her as well. He left her then, but only so that he could travel to his home to have it out with them. She refused to accompany him, and he could not blame her. He was sure, though, that once he had explained the matter in person, they would certainly understand. But though he explained, then raged, then importuned, then frankly demanded, they would not budge. He was too young, they said when he arrived. And he was too young, they maintained as he left them in insult.
At nineteen years of age, Lord Nicholas Daventry, Baron Stafford, left his school, renounced his loving family, moved into rented lodgings with his lover, and waited for his family to capitulate. Ivy would not wed him, she said sorrowfully, without their approval. That she would not do so without their generous allowance and with their stated threat of his being deprived of his future fortune as well was a possibility which never occurred to him.
Letters from his sisters did not change his mind. Advice from concerned friends did not move him. Lack of funds did not swerve him. He loved, as he did all else, with his whole heart. It was only when he arrived at their little flat one day to find Ivy humming as she packed, that his idyll came to an abrupt end. For, she explained simply, there was neither future nor profit in their association any longer. As he sat on their bed and dumbly watched her stow her belongings, she taught him the lesson his stepfather had neglected to deliver. And that was that females could be fully as deceitful, avaricious, and unprincipled as men were capable of being.
She could not waste her time, Ivy explained seriously. London could afford her greater opportunities to seek her fortune while the bloom of her youth was yet upon her. She did not blame him, she said handsomely, for there was no fault in it for either of them. Even her ideal, Harriet Wilson, she confided, that sage queen of the demireps, had at one time absolutely frittered away two entire years waiting for some young lover’s family to come about, and only when she was convinced they never would did she at last quit the fruitless relationship. “For Nick,” she said quite seriously as she snapped together her traveling case, “we can’t be fools. What is love without money?”
It was a very thorough lesson, given by a gentle instructress. And it was an expensive one. Not so much in monetary terms, for though Ivy considered the amount of money given to her by his stepfather for her cooperation to be a princely sum, it was exceedingly little to pay to buy a young man’s freedom from destruction. But if the cost were reckoned in terms of his loss of dignity, face, and confidence, then it was indeed a king’s, rather than a mere baron’s, ransom.
Nicholas Daventry returned to school, returned to the bosom of his family, and returned to his senses so much so that he could eventually even jest about his youthful folly. But he never did return to his previous self. He became a man: a gentleman in the best construction of the word, a credit to his name, a patriot, a sportsman, a staple of the ton, a staunch friend, and a devoted son. He remained a considerate lover. But he never loved again.
He had a reputation for being wise in the ways of women. His mistresses were always up to snuff, being either accredited society beauties whose husbands gave them leave to indulge in discreet affairs, or Cyprians of the highest rank and taste. But he always knew their price, and they always knew their place.
He planned to marry soon, for he was approaching his thirtieth year and wished to set up his nursery. He liked children very well. In fact, he had his eye upon the Incomparable of the Season, a certain Honorable Miss Merriman. But if this present business took him from her for too long, he knew she might well opt for George Ronan, Earl of Cowes, who was paying particular attentions, or an old acquaintance of his, Sir Reginald Beverly, who was paying particularly close inattentions. Still, if she were snapped up by either of them before he returned, he contented himself that there would be another Season, ruled by another equally suitable Incomparable. For he had learned his lesson well, and was careful of his reputation for being wise in the ways of women.
It was the present situation which caused him to prowl a parlor in Quillack’s Hotel like a bear with an aching head, and not the thought of the Honorable Miss Merriman’s inevitable nuptials. For it was clear to him that his young nephew Robin was caught in the same sort of a trap that he had been in, but that the poor lad had been allowed to remain in it for too long. He blamed himself for that.
Nicholas Daventry had returned from the fires of his disgrace tempered by strong feelings of responsibility and obligation to his family. Young Robin might be only his nephew, but he had always felt a bond of sympathy for the lad. Their circumstances were not too dissimilar. Robin had grown to adulthood in the close care of many women as well, for he had been a surprising late-life addition to his family and his two older brothers had been out of the house by the time he was out of his leading strings. Since his father was too old to be anything but bored by infants, and in any case was the sort of man who preferred the company of his older, more boisterous sons, Robin had returned his young uncle’s attention with a gratifying amount of hero worship.
During their school days, Robin’s upper-classman uncle was often pleased to confer honor upon him by returning his flattering adoration with flattering attention. And when his uncle was done with his famous adolescent misadventure, his nephew earned continuing favor by being sage enough or kind enough to never bring the matter up again.
But for all there was a link between “Old Nick” and “Robin Goodfellow,” as they continued to call each other into adulthood, Old Nick had been looking the other way when Robin flew off with his lover, and that his uncle could not forgive himself for. He had fired off a letter immediately after he had heard the news from his distraught aunt, swiftly disengaging himself from the affair he had been pursuing that had preoccupied him so disastrously. Worse yet, he had foolishly thought the matter was done when the chit left Robin in the lurch. He had believed that a tour of the Continent was just the thing to clear his nephew’s heart and head, and so encouraged it in yet another letter and then let the matter lie.
But Robin had been gone for three years and no letters, no messages, no wisdom anyone could put upon paper had changed his mind. His father could not rule him, as they had never been close and even when one son had succumbed to a fever and the other had fallen in the military, it was too late to pick up the threads of their relationship. His mam
a could only wail or nag at him. Only Old Nick could do some good, she insisted. What she left unsaid was the nagging fact that if Robin remained unwed, and then by some horrible chance came to his end while in that state of single blessedness, his uncle would be his heir. Heir to his fortune, and heir to his title.
His aunt’s unspoken accusations did not move Nicholas and it was as well that she never uttered them. He might be a mere baron, but it was common knowledge that the Staffords never sought a title in their long history, not when, as it was commonly said, they had the blunt to buy a kingdom of their own if they wanted honors. But her spoken plaints had weight. For he did think he could influence his nephew. He had traveled to the Continent twice in fact, on various missions, and each time he had sought out Robin. And each time, he had been told, with a sad smile, “soon,” soon he would return, just so soon as he felt he could face England and all of its unhappy memories again.
He would have gotten over the whole foolish affair long since, Nicholas thought savagely, pausing in his pacing to thump his fist impotently upon a wall, if she had only let him alone. But no, he thought, she did not. First, she told Robin she had reconsidered, and when his hopes were high, she changed her mind again. She kept him on a long lead: one that lasted three years and stretched across the channel. In one letter to his uncle Robin would jubilantly state that Julia would be his within the year, and then another would arrive a few months later saying she had had second thoughts again and he must wait upon her reply. Then, even as his father’s condition worsened, Robin told his uncle he had received the devastating news that she had only been toying with him, for she was wed, and had been wed all the while.
The dark-haired gentleman looked down at his clenched fist and wondered again at the violence the wretched slut who called herself Miss Hastings caused him to feel. He could not understand her malice in the affair. If she had cast off Robin because he could not support her once his family had withdrawn their funds, why should she continue to torment him? It was to discover that that he had first set Bow Street upon her traces. When he found that it was another Miss Hastings, a Miss Harriet Hastings, that had been wed upon the sixteenth June, 1813, his fury had nearly overwhelmed him. When he was apprised of Miss Julia Hastings’ history of employment, and realized that she was still on the catch for a wealthy mate, he decided to act.
She should have accepted his original offer, he thought, coming to rest at last upon the arm of the chair. But perhaps, he sighed, closing his eyes, she had her eye on a likely fool whom she thought might make an offer of marriage and did not wish to leave the country and ruin her chances. But there was no reason that he could fathom that would have made her continue to play at her game of innocence. Even Ivy had confessed all when she saw that the game was up. It was that air of outraged innocence, that aura of sweet blamelessness that set his teeth on edge and caused him to lose his temper and temperate thoughts.
No, it was not only that, he admitted. She was so beautiful, so cool and virginal with her demure dresses and her white spun-gold hair and clear light eyes and soft speech that at times she caused him to wonder if he were as mad as she had pretended she thought he was. He could understand why and how Robin had been so thoroughly gulled and how he could continue to be so totally grieved. For Nicholas had lied. Even knowing what she was, the thought of bedding her was irresistible.
But he would not even attempt her, Nicholas thought, opening his eyes to the advancing day and preparing to be done with his tumultuous, fruitless reasonings. Not only would it be a betrayal of Robin if he should lie with her, it would be a total loss of honor for himself. Nor would he ever strike her again. The sick and horrified feeling he had experienced when he realized what he had done, had caused him more pain than if he himself had been soundly beaten. And, he thought with grim amusement, so she had beaten him, the moment that he had touched her in anger. .
Nicholas Daventry straightened and marshaled his thoughts. He would never get anywhere, he realized, if he continued to think of her as just another female, as she wished him to. If he were to carry out this mission successfully, he would have to think of her dispassionately, as he would any masculine enemy, and plan accordingly.
She was dangerous, he thought, because she was never honest, perhaps never even with herself. She had power, because she had such uncanny ability to act that she made a man doubt his own reason. In fact, he wondered why she had not sought a career upon the stage. And she had the ability to incite a man’s desire. But he thought, pleased with how this new method of evaluating her cleared the matter, she clearly had weaknesses. In fact, on balance, she was remarkably unsuccessful. All her past actions showed that she obviously did not angle for a wealthy man’s protection, but held out-instead for an advantageous marriage. There was wisdom in that, he conceded, but still she had never succeeded since she was yet poor and unattached.
Once he thought of her in much the manner of a general assessing an opposing force, his future course of action became clear.
He would counter the danger she presented by making this venture as short as possible, and by avoiding her company whenever he could. He would touch her neither in anger or desire. And he would save his own soul whenever he was tempted by her by remembering that the lowest draggleskirt he could buy at the waterfront of this city this night would have more morals than she possessed.
Now the baron straightened. A smile played about his lips, his brow was smooth, and his eyes shone with amusement. He was himself again. He took out his pocketwatch and was amazed at the hour. He had a great deal to do, he thought as he strode to the door. He would hasten to take her to Robin. And then he would do all in his power to ensure that Robin fully understood the depth and scope of her vileness.
If he could not convince his gullible young nephew of her duplicity, the baron thought as he paused with his hand upon the door, he himself would pay any price, in coin or in kind, to see that the pair never wed. Nicholas Daventry did not make vows lightly, but now before he went out to see to arrangements for a trip to Paris, he gave his solemn oath to himself. He swore that Miss Julia Hastings would never be wife to his nephew. And if she tried, she would pay dearly.
Then, with the air of a man who has just accomplished a great deal, although he had only passed the morning in thought, he opened the door, bestowed a brilliant smile upon a passing maidservant and, squaring his shoulders with resolve, went out into the day.
Precisely at eight in the evening, Miss Hastings presented herself at the door to the private dining parlor. The baron rose to meet her and, acknowledging her punctuality, nodded to her as he showed her to her chair. Though he did not seem to examine her any more closely than he did the servant who brought them their repast, he took careful but oblique note of her appearance. It was both a little disappointing and a bit unnerving for him to discover that in her simple gray dress and beige shawl, she did not appear to be anything other than a very lovely, very sad young woman.
After all his morning’s reflections, he had almost expected her to arrive swathed in red silk and done up to the nines, like the heartless temptress he envisioned her to be. He might even have been pleased to see her unkempt and hysterical with outrage, as the consummate actress he believed her to be. But instead she sat quietly, wrapped in her omnipresent shawl, and said nothing and ate sparingly.
When desserts were brought and they were left alone, he began to detail the journey which was to begin in the morning. Only then did he look her full in the face and see that she had attempted to cover the bruise upon her cheek with rice powder.
A shrewd bargainer might have let it appear to accuse him in all its blatancy. Still, in its concealment, the blemish became even more vivid to him. He had to think a moment before he silently congratulated her on her artful and correct decision that her attempt to ignore the incident would cause him to feel far worse about it than shrill or sullen accusation might. But this reasoning was too convoluted for even its author to follow for longer than the ti
me it took for him to sip his demitasse.
She listened closely as he detailed the coach trip they must take first to Doullens to clear up some personal matter he must attend to, and from thence to Paris itself. She remained mute during his explanations. To prod her from her unsettling silence, he ventured to offer her a slice of a gateau that he found excellent.
“No, thank you,” she said softly. “I find I have not much appetite.”
“Do you think,” he said smoothly, arching an eyebrow as he prepared for battle, “to make me feel guilty for your lack of appetite?”
“Oh no,” she replied swiftly. “It is only that I am not too hungry tonight.”
He sat and stared at her as she averted her eyes. He drummed his fingers upon the tabletop and then said so suddenly as to make her startle, “I am hardly a monster, you know. If you deal honestly with me, you will be honestly dealt with in return. This sulking pettishness does not endear you to me, you know.”
“I don’t wish to endear myself to you,” she said, rising from her chair. “May I go to my room now?” Although this was said without a tremor in her voice, he could not help noticing the tears that had started in her eyes.
“Go then. Good night,” he said abruptly, and found himself rising for courtesy’s sake as she dropped her napkin upon the table and fled.