by Jane Toombs
"Miss Riggs is my cousin from Gravesend, an extremely distant cousin on my mother's side. It might interest you to know that only yesterday Mrs. Baldwin, the widow she rescued from the runaway carriage, offered to—but enough, Devon, I have no wish to bore you with trivialities."
Devon glanced from the corner of his eye at Willoughby, wondering how he could elicit the details of Mrs. Baldwin's offer without showing undue interest. “I detest mysteries,” he said after a pause, “even trivial ones. What did the good Mrs. Baldwin offer Miss Riggs?"
"She most generously proposed that Justine come to live with her in town where she would sponsor my cousin in society. A most surprising offer from Mrs. Baldwin since she has the reputation of being something of a recluse. I suspect her man Rodgers had a hand in it."
"Ahh,” Devon said, all the while wondering why he was so agreeably surprised to hear Willoughby's tattle. And why he was so eager to hear the answer to his next question.
"And what, pray tell,” he asked in his most offhand manner, “did Miss Riggs reply?"
* * * *
"I fail to comprehend why you refused Mrs. Baldwin's kind offer,” Emeline said as the two young women were being driven in an open carriage along Piccadilly on their way to view the nearly completed Waterloo Bridge.
Justine glanced at her cousin. “After meeting Mrs. Baldwin by chance a mere two days ago, her suggestion that I come to live with her in town quite surprised me. Though I found her most amiable and have heard nothing but good about her, she is still a stranger. I had no choice but to refuse.” Even so, Justine acknowledged to herself, she had been sorely tempted by the widow's offer.
"I assure you, Justine, Mrs. B. is respectability itself despite her reputation for eccentricity."
"Eccentricity? In what way is she eccentric?"
"She acquires ailments as readily as you or I might acquire hats. Not just any ailments, mind you, she much prefers the most fashionable illnesses to the more ordinary varieties."
"Imaginary illnesses are certainly preferable to real ones."
"You should at least have given her offer serious consideration."
"Would you, Cousin Emeline, agree to live in Brighton if a kindly matron you had met only two days ago offered you the opportunity?"
"Certainly not. But our circumstances are completely different since I care little for Brighton while you appear to be enamored with London."
Justine nodded in eager agreement. “In town everyone walks at least half a step faster than they do in Gravesend. And this morning I was wakened not by the monotonous barking of dogs but by delightful street cries of ‘Peas green, strawberries ripe, and cherries red.’”
How tiresome, Emeline's glance seemed to say. “For myself,” she said, “I would be absolutely lost without the London shops. I live for the latest fashions."
Justine sighed, wondering why she always seemed to say the wrong thing. After all, she did like clothes as much as the next one, as long as that next one was not Emeline. Obviously, Justine thought more like a country girl than a sophisticated Londoner.
"How perfectly tedious the country must be if one is required to remain there all year round,” Emeline said as their carriage swung into the crowded Strand. “Are you happy with your circumstances in Gravesend? I have the distinct impression such is not the case."
Justine bit her lip, not wanting to be evasive but unwilling to reveal the true extent of her misery. “I am not unhappy,” she equivocated, lowering her parasol only to almost immediately raise it again. “Whether happy or unhappy, I will never accept charity."
She remembered her father telling her, after his fortunes began to ebb, “No Riggs has ever accepted charity and I refuse to be the first. I would rather die than be beholden to strangers; I would rather—” She realized his pause was to allow him time to find a phrase suggesting a fate even worse than death. “I would rather,” he concluded triumphantly, “emigrate to the United States of America."
As she watched Emeline purse her lips in evident disagreement, the memory faded.
"Surely Mrs. Baldwin's offer would not be considered charity,” Emeline said, “when in all probability you saved her life in a most heroic fashion."
The praise caused Justine to shift uncomfortably. “Anyone would have done the same."
"The fact remains that Mrs. Baldwin was saved not by just anyone, but by you, Justine. Why, most young men, including my brother John—who I love dearly—could never have stopped those rampaging horses."
Despite herself, Justine reddened at the suggestion that her cousin found her less than feminine. She glanced at Emeline to see if she had noticed her discomfiture only to find her companion looking elsewhere. When she followed Emeline's surreptitious glance, her heart leaped to see Lord Devon and John Willoughby strolling toward them along the walk on the other side of the Strand.
* * * *
"I say, Devon, look there.” John Willoughby nodded toward the bustling thoroughfare. “My sister did mention she and Miss Riggs intended to view the bridge."
"Miss Riggs? Where?"
Devon saw the Willoughby carriage, recognizing Emeline at once, but it was a moment before he realized that her companion, a young lady whose black ringlets framed an enchanting face, was none other than Justine Riggs. Though her high-crowned white bonnet appeared new, her white dress festooned with a bow of pale yellow at the throat had been out of fashion for at least two seasons.
"Absolutely stunning,” John murmured as the two men raised their hats in salute. The carriage clattered past with both Emeline and Justine looking to their right, to their left, above and beyond them, but never at them.
"Damnation!” Devon slammed his hat back on his head and strode angrily on. “They refuse to recognize us. How tiresome."
"Never noticed us, I expect, in this crush,” John said as he quickened his step to keep pace with his friend.
"Women see exactly what they choose to see, my friend, make no mistake about that."
"There are those who would say both my sister and Miss Riggs have good reasons not to acknowledge you."
"Nonsense. As for your sister, that unfortunate misunderstanding occurred more than a year ago. As for Miss Riggs, she has no reason at all to cut me.” When John glanced at him in a speaking way, Devon said, “Unless she took umbrage at my fully justified remarks following our race in the Park. Not that I was uncivil to her, mind you, I merely called attention to the fact that she had abandoned the contest to avoid certain defeat. And I believe I made her aware of my knowledge of her double deceit in disguising not only herself but her horse."
"As a matter of fact,” Willoughby began, intending to inform Devon that Justine had not been aware her horse had been disguised. But his voice trailed off and he scowled. What was the reason for Devon's sudden interest in Justine? he wondered. She was, after all, his cousin, not Devon's, and, in a manner of speaking, his protégé. His quite fetching protégé.
"You were about to say?” Devon prodded.
"I was about to remark that at times both your words and your manner are more intimidating than you may realize."
"Indeed? What could possibly give you that impression? I always speak my mind, nothing more and nothing less. This world would be a better place if only more men would do the same. I detest deceit of all sorts, I abhor circumlocution, I refuse to waste my time mouthing frivolous and unwarranted compliments."
"Oh! An admirable philosophy, Devon! Yet when actually put into practice, this credo of yours might well be the very reason those two young ladies might refuse to acknowledge you when driving by on the Strand."
"If they prefer the smiling insincerities of society, so be it. No matter, in a few days Miss Riggs will return to her simple country pleasures."
"And to her stargazing."
"Her stargazing? Whatever do you mean, John?"
"When I met her I discovered, much to my surprise, she possesses a telescope mounted in a gazebo of sorts situated on a hilltop near
her home."
Devon raised his eyebrows. “Mankind's past is buried beneath the earth in graves and ruins, beneath the sea in wrecks and lost cities such as Atlantis; our present is here on the surface of our planet like a blight for all to behold; therefore many leap to the conclusion that we must gaze overhead at the stars and the planets to find hints of our future.” He waved his hand as though to dismiss the idea as misguided. “So Miss Justine Riggs purports to be an astrologer."
"I believe she would prefer to have herself referred to as an amateur astronomer."
"An astronomer? You must be mistaken, John. Surely you learned at Oxford that astronomy is the serious study of heavenly bodies while astrology is a mere frivolous speculation. It follows as night follows day that men must be astronomers while women interested in the heavens become astrologers."
"Devon, I wholeheartedly agree with you. What you say is certainly true as a generality, but in this particular case you happen to be in error. You forget that Miss Riggs is no ordinary female."
"I must admit I took her for a young man when I saw her in her jockey garb."
"On the other hand, if only you had seen Justine as I first saw her last week when she glided phantom-like across the meadows. She was entirely captivating, a vision of feminine delight."
Devon gave John a sharp glance. Was it possible John was enamored with his country cousin? Normally, Devon would have been amused at the notion, but for some unknown reason he found the thought strangely disturbing.
"This must have been on your journey to Gravesend,” Devon said, “when you enlisted her as an accomplice in your deception."
"How truly sorry I am about that, Devon. You must believe me when I say I should never have agreed to help Alton with his scheme. My only excuse is my desire to be agreeable."
Devon put his arm around his companion's shoulders. “I forgive you, not once but three times over. You and I, John, have been true friends for more years than I can possibly count. You never fail to encourage my better instincts while forgiving my baser ones. And I surely must possess a few baser instincts, they claim everyone does. What could be a better definition of a friend? What more could I ask of you? If need be, I would trust you with my life."
John shifted uncomfortably, first glancing at Devon and then looking quickly away. Almost, Devon thought, as if he considered himself guilty of some offense, some further deception.
"She had no knowledge of the horse,” John admitted with a rush. “None at all."
"She? Knowledge of the horse? You speak in riddles."
"By she I mean Justine. By the horse I mean Excalibur. Alton—no, Alton and myself, I accept my share of the responsibility—never informed her the horse was other than some ill-bred Scottish steed."
"So I was unfair in my remarks to her, she stands falsely accused.” Devon, espying his opportunity, felt an unexpected frisson of anticipation. “Tomorrow I shall call upon Miss Riggs to plead her forgiveness for my false accusation.” He smiled to himself as he pictured himself confronting Justine, imagining her unease as she awaited still another rebuke from him and then her surprise and delight when she realized he had come not to chastise her but to extend the magnanimous of apologies.
* * * *
True to his word, Lord Devon arrived at the Willoughby town house on Woodstock Street
early the next afternoon. After sending his card up to Miss Justine Riggs, he examined his reflection in the drawing room looking glass, nodding with satisfaction at what he saw there. Blue was his best color, he decided.
When John Willoughby's image appeared in the glass, Devon turned to greet his friend.
"Miss Riggs is not at home,” John said.
Devon nodded. Something in John's tone of voice made him ask, “Truly not at home?"
"Not at home to you, my dear Devon."
Lord Devon stared. In high dudgeon, he flushed. “Be so kind,” he said stiffly, “as to inform Miss Riggs that I have come to tender my apologies for certain inaccurate remarks I made the other day in the Park."
"As you wish.” John bowed and departed only to return in a matter of a few minutes. “Miss Riggs is not at home,” he announced, suppressing a smile at his friend's startled discomfort.
Devon struck his open palm with his fist. He shook his head. Clasping his hands behind his back, he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. Slowly his anger at the unexpected rebuff cooled, giving way to annoyance. “The loss,” he muttered, “is hers, not mine."
"Whether hers or yours, I fear the loss is permanent since my cousin Justine departs for Gravesend early tomorrow morning."
Devon smiled thinly. “Give her my best wishes for a safe and pleasant journey.” Clapping his friend on the shoulder, he strode from the house to his waiting curricle.
As he drove home, he considered taking a temporary leave from society to enter the secret and revivifying world of his retreat on Whitechapel Road
. No, that would not do, he would not allow himself to be thwarted by a young miss, particularly by one from the country. Refuse to see him, indeed!
Yet she would leave town on the morrow and he certainly had no intention of pursuing Miss Riggs to Gravesend to offer his apologies. How it would turn her head if he did! There must, he told himself, be a better way. If anyone could concoct a scheme to accomplish his purpose he, Lord Devon, could.
He began turning the problem over in his mind, examining and discarding one idea after another. And then, as he had been confident it would, a plan began to take shape.
* * * *
As Justine busied herself with packing her portmanteau—no longer accustomed to having servants, she had insisted on making her own preparations for departure—she wondered if she had done the right thing in refusing to see Lord Devon. How she would have enjoyed hearing him admit his error! How she would have savored hearing him plead for her forgiveness! She had never met anyone who found so much in favor with himself.
Picturing their meeting, a confrontation that was destined never to take place, she smiled as she imagined his feigned abjectness. If only ... Her smile slowly faded and she sighed for all the “if onlys” of life. If only their stations were less disparate. If only she could be all he wanted in a woman—utterly feminine, garbed in the height of fashion, an aloof beauty worshipped from afar by all the gentlemen of the ton. Smitten despite himself, Lord Devon would court her, reluctantly at first but then, incited by her rebuffs, with growing ardor until he would at last propose marriage. And—how delicious the scene—she would reject him. Could her revenge be any sweeter than that?
How foolish she was even to imagine behaving in such a deceitful way, so contrary to her nature. She could be no one but herself just as, unfortunately, Lord Devon could be Lord Devon and no other.
She thought of Lord Devon as a comet, a being who had hurtled into her life from the unknown, a brilliancy appearing without warning from nowhere to light the night sky as it hastened on its journey around the sun, a streak of light to be admired—or, perhaps, feared—from afar for a few days or a few weeks until it disappeared back into the unfathomable darkness of the great void of space, never to be seen again.
Except in her memory, where it would flame forever.
What romantic, sentimental rubbish, Justine chided herself. Lord Devon a comet, indeed! He had succeeded, however, in throwing her thoughts into a confused jumble. He was but a man, she reminded herself, and if Emeline was to be believed, a less than admirable one at that. Even John Willoughby, his best friend, had hinted at grievous flaws in his character.
"After first being tricked by Alton and now scorned by you, Justine,” John had said that very afternoon, “I expect Devon will disappear for a fortnight or more."
"To spend his days and nights with his bit of muslin,” Emeline added with surprisingly bitter candor.
So Devon was wont to retreat in the face of adversity, Justine told herself with satisfaction. Hardly a heroic trait; in fact quite the opposite. Why, then
, did he so occupy her thoughts during the day and, if the truth be told, her dreams at night? If his station in society was so impossibly high, which it was, and his character so woefully low, which it appeared to be, she should have received him when he called, accepted his apology, and dismissed him from her presence and her life with an indifferent wave of her hand.
Ah, but to have seen him again would have been impossible for her. No, not impossible, it would merely have been unwise. A comet is intensely hot, perhaps as devastatingly hot as the sun itself, and those who venture too close do so at the peril of having their wings charred, causing them to plummet back to earth. Shaking her head in exasperation at her tangled, perfervid imaginings, Justine stood and closed her portmanteau with unnecessary vigor.
At that moment there came a tapping at her open door. When Justine looked up, she saw Alice, one of the Willoughby maids.
"There's a man asking for you, miss,” Alice told her. Her heart leapt. How persistent Devon was. “I am not at home to Lord Devon."
"Oh! Not a gentleman, miss, I didn't mean it was a gentleman. ‘Tis only Rodgers, Mrs. Baldwin's man."
Puzzled, Justine descended the stairs to the drawing room where she found Rodgers, gray of hair yet trim of build, standing with hat in hand. His show of deference, however, was belied by the glint of shrewdness in his hazel eyes.
"Mrs. Baldwin sent you?” Justine asked.
Rodgers shook his head. “She has no inkling I am here nor, I trust, will she ever learn of my visit.” His speech, she noted, was as refined as that of the Quality he had served all of his life.
When Justine made no reply, he went on. “Mrs. Baldwin, I believe, offered to take you into her house and introduce you to society."
"She did indeed, a most gracious offer."
"And yet you refused to come to her."
Justine nodded, surprised by Rodgers’ interest in affairs that appeared to be no concern of his.
"You were unwilling to accept charity, I warrant.” Hurrying on before she had a chance to answer, Rodgers changed course. “I have come to add my thanks to those of Mrs. Baldwin. If harm had befallen her in the park, I could never have forgiven myself."