Selinda looked up at him with a smile, and suddenly Lord Waverly’s spirits lightened. To see her seated at his own table, looking so very much as if that were her proper sphere, made him smile in turn and swallow his fears and misgivings. All would be well, he assured himself.
“I hope it shall not be long,” Selinda went on quickly without waiting for his reply, “for you must own it would never do if Miss Snypish were to discover my absence and set someone after me.”
Lord Waverly agreed that this was so and informed her of his decision to have his landau sent around. Although he did not see fit to mention it, comfort was not Lord Waverly’s primary concern in his choice of conveyance. He was by nature so little used to thinking about propriety that Richard’s insinuations about Selinda’s character last night, however mistaken, had taken Lord Waverly aback. Although his anger had resulted in the servant’s dismissal, his nocturnal deliberations had prompted him to choose a closed vehicle for the journey. Selinda would be conveyed in comfort and anonymity. He himself would ride ahead to gather what information he might and, he realized as he looked across the table at her, wisely avoid the temptation a day’s companionship might inspire.
“The rain subsided during the night,” he told her with a smile, “and I think we shall get along quickly enough—more so, to be sure, than the heavily laden coach we pursue. They will have had a hard night of it. I do not think they can be far ahead of us.”
At this speech, Selinda’s smile broadened prettily, for she had been steeped in fear that she would not be allowed to go after all. She had been serious in her threat to follow, but she knew well enough she had not the least clue as to how to set about it. Certainly, she had read about intrepid heroines who had undergone any number of hardships in pursuit of honor and heart’s desire, but whether she was equal to such bold actions—that was another question. Apparently, though, Lord Waverly believed her to be a more capable sort than she did herself. That was heartening anyway. Relieved, however, that she would not be forced to discover the true extent of her resources, she contentedly finished her breakfast.
Before another half-hour had passed and indeed before the last tinges of pink had disappeared from the horizon, Lord Waverly’s landau was departing London.
Chapter Eighteen
Selinda need not have worried that the discovery of her absence was imminent. When Miss Snypish finally arose from her bed the next day, the morning was all but spent and the sun high in the sky. It had rained hard during the night, of course, but now the air was brisk and clear. A new day and a new life beckoned to the companion. Miss Snypish threw open the window and her thin lips hovered momentarily on the edge of a smile. It felt rather odd, she decided, but not unpleasant.
She was excited about the expedition to Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks, of course, but even more so by the thought of the Marquess of Bastion’s attendance on her. He really was perfect, she sighed inwardly. He bowed and complimented and fawned very nicely, but, best of all, he listened to what she said and repeated it back to her as veriest wisdom. Her heart beat with a newborn passion.
As she settled herself in front of her glass, Miss Snypish examined her face with satisfaction. It certainly did appear that the last few days’ treatments and her change in diet had been efficacious. She thought she could see the beginnings of color in her sallow cheeks and even, perhaps, a bit of a glow. She would wear the cerise crepe that had been delivered late yesterday and perhaps the round bonnet with the turquoise bows. Yes, the ribbon would set it all off nicely, she thought. Then she remembered the yellow roses the marquess had sent the day before. Perhaps she would do him the honor of pinning some of them to the crown of the bonnet. A less determined woman might have eschewed such a ploy, but she did not balk in the least at emotional manipulation.
There was just one other thing, though. Selinda. The older woman frowned as she envisioned the girl’s delicate features. Perhaps her tale of Selinda’s failing health was insufficient. Even though Miss Snypish was fairly certain that the marquess had believed her fabrication of the day before, she was not at all certain she wanted any sort of rival about. Perhaps it would serve well to have Selinda keep to her chamber today. After all, the girl had looked quite faded the day before and even at dinner last night. A day or two of seclusion could do her no harm. Then Miss Snypish could have both Bastion and his cousin to herself. It would not do the marquess a bit of harm to suspect that he might have a rival for her affections. Besides, her employers would return all too soon, and Miss Snypish wanted to secure her position with her suitor as quickly as possible.
Suddenly determined, she pulled a faded wrapper about her lean form and strode down the hallway to Selinda’s chamber. Without the formality of a knock, she threw open the door and made her way across the darkened room to the window. It was high time the girl was up and about, she tut-tutted to herself. It really was not like Selinda to sleep away half the day. She flung the curtains wide, and, turning to pounce on her slumbering victim, she stopped in her tracks. Selinda’s bed was empty and undisturbed.
* * * *
In another part of the city, Richard, Lord Waverly’s former footman, sat glowering at nothing in particular. His erstwhile master and that troublemaking miss had departed almost before it was light, leaving instructions for the servant to be gone before the day was out. The clock in the drawing room had just rung two. Richard had completed packing his belongings and now sat in the elegant foyer one last time, delaying the inevitable moment when he must leave. It seemed a sad and sorry miscarriage of justice, he reflected bitterly, that, just because he had conducted affairs according to his superior notion of what was proper, an exemplary servant should have received not only such a blistering tongue-lashing but an unprecedented dismissal. After all, it was not as if his Lordship had prepared him for what was to happen last night. How was he to know that an errand to convey a message would transform to one of delivering a miss? Well, he had done his best to be circumspect and it had got him nowhere.
Richard’s frown deepened. Times were hard and it would be next to impossible to find another position as profitable. True, his Lordship’s odd ways had rankled and chafed, but the wages he paid were unparalleled. Richard had momentarily considered what he might do to find his way back into Waverly’s good graces, but, as he recalled his employer’s parting words, he knew that sort of turnaround was not to be looked for. He must begin to search out a position where his talents would be appreciated, and straightaway, too.
Just then, the front doorbell sounded. Richard straightened himself with habitual precision and opened the door. Before him stood a young boy, certainly no more than twelve or thirteen, covered in mud and gnawing on an apple. An expression of severe disdain for this extraordinary effrontery appeared on Richard’s face, and he immediately made as if to shut the door against this most distressing sight.
‘“Ere now, not so fast, mister,” the boy cried out, quickly slipping past the repressive Richard. “I got a message for ‘is Lordship and it’s urgent pressing.”
Richard, quite naturally, had been about to toss the boy back onto the street and would have done so had he been able to determine how to accomplish that feat without actually touching the creature. Even though his loathing for Lord Waverly had reached a fevered pitch, the sight of the urchin’s bare feet on the mirror-like marble prompted in Richard a severe and sudden nausea.
“It’s from a lady,” the boy added in a whisper.
“From a lady, you say?” Richard gasped, firmly repressing his stomach’s rebellion.
“A very young lady, if you take my meaning.”
Richard pursed his lips and thought for a moment. Distressing though the messenger was, the envelope he clutched in his grubby hand was intriguing. Whatever it was, it might bear some fruit if Richard could contrive to use it to his advantage.
“I shall take it to his Lordship as soon as he has arisen,” Richard intoned loftily. “Now take a farthing and run along.”
The boy hesitated a moment. He had promised the little girl at the inn that he would personally see the message put into Lord Waverly’s hands. Still, he thought, there was no telling how long the gentleman would sleep, and he was planning on spending the day looking about the city. He had been paid generously to deliver the message, but what good was that if he was forced to spend the day cooling his heels instead of enjoying the sights? It couldn’t hurt, he reasoned, to entrust the message to a servant who looked, to his provincial eyes, like a veritable member of the nobility himself.
“You’ll be sure ‘e gets it?” the boy asked with a suspicious glare.
By way of reply, Richard raised one very daunting eyebrow and motioned the boy toward the door. Shrugging, the messenger turned and took himself down the street in search of amusement.
Once he was alone, Richard wasted no time in acquainting himself with the contents of the message. It was inexpertly sealed, and, heating the edge of a gilt letter opener in a candle, he was quickly able to slide the blade beneath the wax without disturbing the impression. There, in large, round handwriting he read:
My dear Lord Waverly,
We are in a sorry state, indeed, for I have been forced to go along with my wretched guardians whom you know I have cause to fear. We are at an inn called The Laughing Lion, or at least I am, for my tormentors have luckily been lost in the storm—may they never find their road! That is all foolishness and wishful thinking, though, for anyone can see they will make their way here soon enough.
Selinda is all alone at Harroweby House, but for that vile Miss Snypish who you will agree is as evil as ink. I do not know what else to tell you, but, if it is not too terribly inconvenient, could you perhaps rescue me? I do not like to own it, but I begin to be very much afraid.
If everything should fall out badly, I must thank you now for all your efforts. But do hurry, for I am being as brave as I can. You will look after Selinda, I know, for you love her.
Lady Lucy Harroweby
Harroweby, Richard smiled to himself. Fortune favors those who keep their eyes open to the main chance, he reminded himself. Well, he would just gather up his bags and hie himself to Harroweby House. Doubtless someone there would be very interested in the contents of this letter. And doubtless, he reflected with a thin smile, they would feel some gratitude toward him.
* * * *
Selinda sat inside Lord Waverly’s coach watching the countryside slide swiftly by. The last time she had driven along this road, her circumstances had been different but no less harrowing. Why was it, she wondered, that such adventures seemed so much more agreeable on the printed page than in real life? Her situation entailed all of the classic components of love and adventure stories, but only in dreams had she achieved the effects of which she had read. As Selinda recalled her shocking dream of two nights ago, she realized that it no longer brought a blush to her cheeks, only a mysterious warmth that transcended the hardships that surrounded her.
But still, she reminded herself harshly, a dream was merely a dream. True, Lord Waverly had kissed her during their extraordinary encounter under the church pew and held her most comfortingly in the park. And then again he was about to kiss her last night until that pesky cat had insinuated itself between them. But what was there in that? Everything except a declaration of love, she thought ruefully. It was clear that Lord Waverly was a brave and generous man who cared not one whit for the opinion of society, but, very likely, it was her remarkable little sister who had charmed him and not her more conventional self. Selinda looked sadly down at the woolen gown she wore and the heavy shoes she had donned in preparation for her damp vigil of the previous night. In spite of her troubles, she no more resembled a romantic heroine than Miss Snypish did. Well, she grinned ruefully, perhaps a little more romantic than that person, but not as much as she would like to imagine.
In confirmation of these dreary meditations, Selinda had seen but little of Lord Waverly since their journey began. He had for the greater part of the day ridden on ahead, in hopes, he had told her, of hearing something of the coach in which Lucy had departed with Prudence and Rupert. As mile after mile spun by, Selinda began to feel like one more piece of baggage rather than an equal partner in Lucy’s rescue. More than anything, she wished for a happy conclusion to this distressing tale, but it would be splendid indeed if she could be a part of bringing it about rather than a mere observer. Selinda was about to give herself over to despondency when she remembered that Lord Waverly had, at last, returned her book to her. However little the events in her life were mirrored therein, she could at least pretend.
Chapter Nineteen
Miss Snypish flew about her chamber, desperately arranging her toilette. The sight of Selinda’s empty bed had brought her heart to her throat and the image of Prudence’s wrathful expression to her mind’s terrified eye. She was not at all clear what she must do in order to recover the wretched girl, but, whatever it was, she was at least sensible to the fact that she could not accomplish it dressed only in her wrapper.
The distraught companion made herself decent in record time, tore down the staircase and out the front door where she ran bodily into a footman bearing a note. As he picked himself up off the walk, she could not help noticing that his livery identified him as belonging to Lord Waverly’s house.
In spite of her normally staid demeanor., Miss Snypish was so relieved by the appearance of one unconnected with Harroweby House (and thus unlikely to inform her employers of her charge’s disappearance) who might possibly be able to assist her in her sudden need that she was unable to restrain the shrill whoop of elation that rose to her lips. Taking the startled Richard (for indeed it was he) firmly by the ear, she dragged him back the way she had come, slammed the door after her, and sat her victim down in a hooded chair. There she stood before him, effectively blocking any path of escape, her eyes glittering with ominous desperation.
“Well?” she demanded at last, holding her hand out for the note.
Richard, with such courage as would have astonished his most recent employer, cleared his throat and, holding aside the message he had intercepted, begged leave to have some speech with the master or mistress of the house. This request Miss Snypish ignored with a disdainful snort, and, kicking the poor fellow soundly in the shin, she caused him to let go his prize as he gasped and clutched both hands to his now-throbbing leg. The companion, who during the early days of her current post had been assigned the duties of governess as well, at once recognized Lucy’s round hand as the letter fluttered to the ground. With a gasp, she snatched it up and, with neither permission nor ceremony, immediately began to peruse it.
Through his pain, Richard watched with fascination as the woman’s face grew quite gray beneath her paint. “Do you know the direction of the Marquess of Bastion?” she managed at last.
“Naturally,” Richard sneered. “The marquess is the first cousin of—”
“Then you shall come with me,” she informed him, fixing him with an icy stare which made his knees suddenly weak with trepidation. “Come, sirrah. We shall summon a hackney at once.”
Half an hour later, the Marquess of Bastion’s similarly intimidated valet was hastily assisting his master in a rushed toilette. From the servant’s stuttering description, Bastion had no doubt that his caller was the inestimable Miss Snypish, but he had not the least idea what had prompted her to make such an untoward call. If nothing else, however, he had come to value that woman’s good sense so like his own, and decided that she must have an unusually good motive.
When at last he joined her in his parlor, he was exceedingly surprised to see her accompanied by Richard, his cousin’s footman. What in the devil was going on here? he wondered. Before he could inquire, however. Miss Snypish wordlessly handed him Lucy’s note. When he at last looked up at her, she managed to say with tight control, “As you can see, my lord, we have been scandalously used.”
It was unfortunate that the marquess was not so swift a thinker as she an
d it was several moments before the situation as she had deduced it, confirmed halfheartedly by the terrified Richard, could be explained to his satisfaction. When the import of the message at last struck him, Bastion was torn between a smug elation in learning that his cousin had done something so despicable as to elope with a defenseless heiress and anger that his own similar plans had been thwarted.
“I think I shall have a brandy,” he said at last.
“I think you shall do no such thing,” Miss Snypish told him sharply. “We must pursue them at once!”
The marquess frowned. “Pursue them in what? I have a high-perch phaeton, but—”
“Then, sir, a high-perch phaeton it must be,” Miss Snypish cut him off, “for I shall not have the fortunes of some blighted while others prosper with impunity. Now let us be off.”
“So you mean us to head for this Laughing Lion?” the marquess ventured.
Miss Snypish sighed heavily and swallowed the crushing epithet that rose so easily to her lips. In fact, had not the weakness of his chin prompted such tender ardor in her bosom, she might well have boxed his ears. “No, no,” she said evenly at last. “Lord Waverly and Lady Selinda know nothing of The Laughing Lion, do they? We have Lucy’s little note, after all. We shall, of course, head for Darrowdean and intercept the pair.”
“And then?” the marquess persisted blankly.
“I shall tell you when we get there,” Miss Snypish returned, sinking inwardly as she realized she had not the least idea.
* * * *
Lucy awoke to a brilliant blue day after a night of singularly pleasant dreams. Indeed, her nocturnal visions of ices at Gunter’s and entertainments at Astley’s Amphitheatre were so peopled with handsome young boys that she was forced to look at the spirit of her frolicsome great-great grand-mama quite narrowly. She would have taxed the ghost with her rising suspicions had not Mrs. Bunche just then entered the chamber singing a country song in cheerful if inaccurate tones.
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