by Jo Beverley
They all tried to dismiss the matter, but there was a cloud of concern over the party as they settled to eat.
The meal was halfway through when Verderan strolled back, dry, clothed, and enviably cool. He was the hero of the hour, praised for his rescue of the valued toy. Beth found herself wondering how much he had been motivated by mischief and how much by the simple desire to swim. A complex man, she thought, and not one to judge simply on the surface. The thought came to her to wonder whether he could be mischievous enough to send those letters to Sophie but she instantly dismissed it. That wasn’t in the man’s style at all.
After the meal it transpired that local wedding customs had been a topic of conversation. There was another betrothed couple present besides Randal and Sophie and they had decided to try “handing.” After a bit of teasing, Randal and Sophie were persuaded to take part.
All the ladies present stood in a circle. Randal and the other young man, Mr. Richard Stevens, were blindfolded. They were to walk around taking each pair of hands in turn. When they thought they held the hands of their true love, they were to kiss the hands and remove their blindfold.
Beth looked around the circle. She wondered how easy it was to distinguish a pair of hands. Some of the ladies would present no problem, being much older or plumper than the two brides-to-be but many would surely feel much the same. She saw that Sophie had mischievously slipped off her diamond ring; now why would she want to make it more difficult for Randal? A few ladies laughed and entered into the spirit of the thing by either removing their own rings or moving a ring to their wedding finger.
It was a positive conspiracy of deception. Beth would go odds, though, that if any couple in the world could identify each other just by the touch of their fingers, it was Randal and Sophie.
“What happens if they choose amiss?” Beth asked of the lady standing next to her.
“In the olden days they say he had to forfeit his bride,” was the amused answer. “We’re not so severe today. He has to buy free of the one he has mistakenly chosen by a gift of a pair of gloves, and pacify his true love with a kiss.”
Beth could see now why Sophie had agreed to play the game and why she was trying to fool Randal into choosing amiss. In fact she wouldn’t put it past the young lady to have instigated the game in the first place.
Mr. Stevens took Beth’s hands for a brief moment and passed by. She wasn’t surprised. Her hands were noticeably smaller than both brides’. Lord Randal too passed by after brief contact.
The gentlemen could go around the circle as often as they wished before making their choice and poor Mr. Stevens was obviously nervously undecided. Beth looked at his bride and saw tension there. Mr. Stevens knew his betrothed and knew she would be upset at his failure.
Sophie, she saw, was positively wishing failure at Randal.
But in the end he stopped in front of her without noticeable uncertainty, raised both hands for a kiss, and removed his blindfold.
“How did you know me?” she demanded.
“How could I not?”
Which was perhaps an unfortunate comment as Mr. Stevens had just chosen a laughing Countess of Wraybourne. His bride, however, was soon pacified by a very hearty and much applauded kiss. Sophie looked cross.
“Now I wonder if I could tell a particular lady’s hands,” said Sir Marius as he was escorting Beth to the curricle for the drive on to the Towers. The adults had been invited back there for dinner and an informal hop. “Yours, for example.”
“Surely the idea is that the hands are special to the man in question,” Beth retorted.
He captured one of her hands and considered it, turning it this way and that. “A small and delicate hand. I’d lay odds not as weak as it looks.”
Beth tugged unsuccessfully. His large, rough thumb rubbed over her palm. “Good strong lines. A gypsy would say you have a determined personality.”
“Do you tell fortunes?”
“I could give a fair try at yours, my dear.”
“Really?” Beth queried skeptically, but unwillingly amused. “What would it be?”
“Oh,” he said carelessly. “The usual. An unexpected meeting with a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Love, marriage, and happiness ever after.”
Beth raised her brows. “Very unlikely in my case, I’m afraid.”
“Time will tell.” He rubbed the ball of her thumb. “This is interesting,” he said.
“Why? Do you really know anything about such things?”
“A little,” he said with a secretive smile. “A nice, firm, plump mound here is very significant.”
“What of, pray?”
He looked up and released her. “I’ll tell you one day, dear lady. One day soon.”
Beth was left with the feeling yet again that the obvious conversation was not in fact what had been going on at all. A woman of sense, she decided, would avoid the teasing baronet on all future occasions. Why did she feel she wasn’t a woman of sense?
At least the meal that evening provided no problem, for she was seated between Arnold Tring and young Mr. Stevens. They were both pleasant companions and the type of unassuming people she was accustomed to. Afterward they all repaired to the ballroom and sets were formed for dancing. There were too few people for the grand room, a matter which appeared to concern nobody.
The ducal household included two footmen and a maid of musical talent who were trained by the duke for just such an occasion. They played tolerably well on the piano and violins and the company threw itself merrily into a succession of country dances.
At first Beth was inclined to refuse invitations both on the grounds of age and status. It was Lord Randal who persuaded her onto the floor. He didn’t point out, as he might have done, that many of the ladies prancing in front of her were older, or that her rank could not be considered inferior to that of the curate’s wife. He merely said, “If you don’t dance with me, Mrs. Hawley, I’ll conclude you can’t forgive me for being so elevated with you yesterday. I’ll sink into a melancholy and drown myself in the Stenby moat. And then what will poor Sophie do?”
Beth had as much chance of not taking part in the next set as the candle in the wall sconce had of surviving till the morrow.
As they walked toward the set he added to his apology, saying ruefully, “It’s just that I’m growing tired of being pushed in the direction everyone’s been pulling me back from all my life. I do know what I’m doing, you know.”
Beth was not above doing a little manipulating. “I’m afraid to say anything, Lord Randal.”
As the music started and they bowed and curtsied, he flashed her an amused look from those very blue eyes that could appear as innocent as a cherub’s. “I doubt that,” he said blithely. “But speak away, Mrs. Hawley. Preach the work of the devil. Tempt me into the pits of hell. I can withstand it all!”
The dance then required him to twirl her around, which he did with such verve she felt dizzy. Beth gasped, “Lord Randal, you have a way of carrying things to extremes!”
He stopped dead and swung her smoothly into another move. “It’s my nature,” he declared, as he put his hand on her waist. He looked down at her with a glittering smile that seemed to invite her to share with him the glorious absurdity of life. “Aren’t you going to harangue me into debauchery, dear ma’am?”
Beth gave up. As a means of ridding himself of interference this madcap effervescence was more effective than the chilling hauteur.
She happily surrendered to the pleasure of the dance. She hadn’t danced like this since her husband died, though she had kept up her skill when teaching country dances to Jane. She remembered those strange performances, just the two of them pretending they were eight and singing the tunes as they went through the moves. It had been inadequate teaching but great fun.
It was even more fun in a set, with real music and a skillful partner.
Lord Randal was an excellent partner. He was always graceful, of course, but he was also in control of every move.
His hands on hers, or on her waist, were firm. On the occasions when she forgot a step and faltered, he guided her smoothly on so that she was sure a watcher could never detect her hesitation.
When their set was over, and he had procured a glass of lemonade for her, she said, “Thank you, Lord Randal. That was most enjoyable. You are a fine dancer.”
He laughed. “Now, Mrs. Hawley. It is I who should say that to you.”
Beth blinked. With his color heightened and his eyes shining with uncomplicated enjoyment, he was stunning. Did Sophie perhaps feel nervous at taking this much desirability into her keeping? Beth silently admonished herself for stupidity. It was not a matter to concern most women, least of all a nineteen-year-old. She wouldn’t be surprised to find that Sophie’s notes were written by a jealous young miss with a taste for Gothic novels.
She sipped the cool, refreshing drink. “But I am not a fine dancer,” she replied to his comment, “and I’m sure you would never offer me Spanish coin.”
His eyes brightened still more. “Foolish certainty!” He dug into a pocket and spun a gold coin. “Here, Mrs. Hawley. For you.”
She shook her head. It was like trying to handle quick-silver. When she studied the coin he had given her she saw it was a Spanish doubloon. “I grant you the point,” she said with a smile. “But I can’t possibly take this, Lord Randal. It must be valuable.”
“Not particularly. It is just a lucky piece.”
“Then I definitely must not take it.”
He closed her hand over the coin and his smile steadied to something warm and genuine. “Please, Mrs. Hawley,” he said. “What need have I of luck, when I’m to marry Sophie next week? And you have, I think, a genuine kindness toward me. Take it, and may it make you as fortunate as I.”
He went to his next partner and Beth looked at the coin, bemused. She had no objection to a little luck, but hardly thought the coin would bring her wedded bliss. Perhaps, she thought pragmatically, she should buy a lottery ticket.
As Lord Randal had persuaded her onto the floor, she lacked an excuse to use with other gentlemen, nor did she wish for one. How many other dances would she attend in her life? Soon Sir Marius led her out. To her surprise her dance with him was ordinary and decorous. He was too large a man, of course, for prancing, but still she had come to expect a little teasing and perhaps one of those amused, secretive looks. She found herself quite disappointed.
Then, as they stood together afterward, she saw one of those amused, secretive looks and a shiver went through her.
“You look rather sad,” he said as he commanded wine for them. “Could it be that you are disappointed, Mrs. Hawley?”
“With what, pray?” asked Beth.
“Perhaps you hoped to dance the waltz here?”
“Not at all,” said Beth, wondering what it might be like.
“Perhaps the wine is too dry, then?”
“On the contrary,” she said. “It is delicious, Sir Marius.”
“Then it must be the heat. I fear we will have a storm one day soon.”
Beth became aware that the fickle breeze had disappeared with the sun and there was nothing now to cool the heavy air. The ballroom formed the ground floor of one wing. Windows and doors on both sides stood open but little air passed through. In her light muslin Beth was not too uncomfortable, but she suspected the men must be feeling the heat in their jackets and cravats.
Sophie suddenly appeared at her side and offered a fan from a dozen or so she held in her hand. Beth took it gratefully. She opened it to find it was a simple thing made of wood and paper, prettily decorated with flowers and the ducal coat of arms. “They order them by the gross,” said Sophie lightly. “Never know when they will be of use.”
She turned to Sir Marius. “Would you like one, Marius? You’re looking a little wilted.”
He considered her offering dubiously. “Do you have a larger size?”
She laughed and flitted off. Beth plied her fan gratefully in such a way that some of the breeze played on him.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m wondering whether to go and have a word with Verderan. If he were to shock everyone by removing his cravat, perhaps we could all follow suit.”
Piers Verderan, however, seemed to be the only person unaffected by the heat as he danced indefatigably through the evening.
As the Stenby party prepared to depart, Beth felt a tremor of nervousness at the thought of driving home with Sir Marius. There was a clear full moon, but still to be alone with a man in the middle of the night was an unusual situation.
He showed no inclination to tease, however. Perhaps he realized how tired she was. When she yawned, and apologized, he said, “Why not lean against my shoulder, Mrs. Hawley?”
“I could not possibly do such a thing,” she protested.
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” he teased.
And so she did and almost dozed off before they got back to the Castle.
“Would you like me to carry you in?” he asked softly when he drew his horses up at last.
That stiffened Beth’s spine like a ramrod. “Of course not,” she said sharply. A groom assisted her down from the seat and she made her way quickly into the house. It was only when she reached her bedchamber that she realized that in her flight she had been less than gracious, whereas he had been kind, perhaps more than kind, all day.
She had to acknowledge that she was coming to regard Sir Marius Fletcher in a particular manner which was doubtless unwise. In the privacy of her bedchamber she tried to argue herself out of her wanton foolishness but her heart was not amenable to reason.
7
DESPITE HER tiredness, sleep did not come easily to Beth that night, and she roused the next morning feeling dissatisfied with herself and anxious about life in general. There was certainly much to fret about—Sophie and Lord Randal, those strange letters, Sir Marius ... And to think she had anticipated a pleasant sojourn in the country. When Jane asked her to check on their invalid, saying she had no faith in Sophie’s supervision, Beth was pleased to have something to take her mind off her problems.
The woman was sitting in her bed, drinking tea, looking much improved. A frilled nightcap covered most of her bandage and her cuts were healing. There was even a little color in her haggard cheeks.
When Beth introduced herself, the lady smiled. “I understand from the maid that you were the Good Samaritan who brought me here. I must thank you.”
“I could do nothing else. This was, after all, your destination. Do you still not have your memory?”
“I am afraid not,” said the lady with a sigh. “It is a very strange state of affairs. You have no idea ...”
“You must not concern yourself,” said Beth briskly. “In such a large household, you are no great burden.”
“But with the marriage coming so soon.”
Beth took a seat by the bed and smiled reassuringly. She could understand how very awkward the lady must feel. “Even with that.”
“Lady Sophie seems a delightful young lady. Her husband will be a very lucky man.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Beth simply, having no intention of gossiping.
The woman put down her cup and saucer and looked closely at Beth. “I hope he is a sober, reliable gentleman,” she said.
Beth instinctively drew back slightly. Why was this woman so concerned about strangers? “He will make her a good husband,” Beth responded carefully.
“Is their attachment of long standing?” the woman asked. It was not so much the question as the avidity in the older woman’s eyes, which disturbed Beth.
“I am not an intimate of the family, ma’am,” Beth said repressively. “I was merely the countess’s governess. Lord Randal and Lady Sophie have known each other all their lives, I understand.”
The invalid responded to Beth’s tone and looked away, but there was the tightness of irritation on her face. Was her curiosity just a natural desire for information, any information? Beth remembered the w
oman had come here with Sophie’s marriage announcement in her reticule....
“Lady Wraybourne visited me yesterday,” the woman said, with a social smile. “She’s very handsome. What kind of man is the earl? Does she have a happy marriage?”
So it wasn’t only Sophie who invited the woman’s prying. Beth was having no part of it. “They are very well suited,” she said firmly and rose to her feet.
“Please,” the woman said quickly. “Do not be offended. You must try to understand. I cannot speak of myself, as I know nothing. I am naturally curious about those around me.”
Repugnance was replaced by guilt and Beth sat down again. She could not imagine what it must be like to awake with no knowledge of one’s identity or history, dependent upon the goodwill of strangers.
“But it would be unseemly, ma’am, to gossip about people’s personal lives. Perhaps if I arrange for the newspapers to be brought to you something might trigger your memory.”
“Thank you,” said the woman meekly, laying a hand briefly over Beth’s. “You are very kind. And I wonder if you know what became of my portmanteau?”
Beth checked the wardrobe and found the bag there. The clothes it had contained were put away but it was obviously not empty. She took it over to the bed.
The woman took it as if it were precious but made no move to open it.
“Shall I replace it?” Beth asked.
“No,” the woman said. There was a hesitation and then she opened the bag and took out a flat wooden box. She raised the lid almost eagerly and then stopped. Beth looked. The box was the case for the pistol she’d been told of. The pistol, of course, was missing.
“How strange,” the woman said. “Is this mine?”
“So I understand.”
“Then where is the pistol?”
“I believe it was taken in case ...” Beth sought for tactful words.
“In case I was deranged? Or suicidal?” the woman queried drily. “I assure you I am not, for all that my memory appears to have gone on furlough.” One dry finger traced the empty, velvet-lined socket. “I wonder if it would be possible to have the firearm back. I feel a flickering of memory when I look at this....”