by Jane Toombs
"I—that is, we—would greatly appreciate, and I shall put the matter bluntly, your help in selecting an appropriate suitor for Miss Justine Riggs."
Raising his eyebrows to feign surprise, Quentin let a moment pass before he said, “I shall do my best to help you."
"Capital!” Gerard sat opposite Quentin and leaned toward him. “We would value your opinion of our five prospects,” he told the younger man. “Any information you pass on, I give you my solemn oath, will go no further. My lips will be forever sealed."
Quentin nodded. He would, he had decided after his tête-à-tête with Rodgers in the maze, be as forthcoming and impartial with his advice as he possibly could. His goal, after all, was the same as Gerard's—to see Justine speedily and happily wed.
"The first gentleman we wish to consider,” Gerard said, “is your friend, Mr. John Willoughby."
"An excellent young man, a boon companion with an amiable disposition, a friend to all, a Trojan, a man with excellent prospects, a man of marriageable age who comes from a fine family.” Quentin sighed. “Regrettably, I must inform you of a conversation John and I had earlier today in which he stated emphatically that he had absolutely no romantic interest in Miss Riggs. I fear you must cross his name from your list."
"I suspected as much.” Taking a paper from his pocket and resting it on the arm of his chair, Gerard drew a firm line through the name of John Willoughby. “The next name is that of Mr. Richard Ewing, a young gentleman who is assured of coming into a living in Islington within the next month or two."
"Under normal circumstances, a young parson would be a capital choice for Miss Riggs. However, to call your Mr. Ewing young is to use that word in the loosest possible sense since he will never see forty again. Mr. Ewing turned to the solace of religion somewhat late in life, it seems, in an attempt to atone for his stupendously dissolute youth. Now he intends to sire a quiverful of children, seven, I believe, a number that may or may not equal the number of byblows he has left scattered across England from Kent to Cornwall. I understand, he happens to be a garrulous fellow who has been known to drive his dinner companions to tears of boredom while he spoke twaddle without allowing an interruption for over thirty minutes at a time."
Should Justine marry such a man as Richard Ewing? Quentin asked himself. Not if he could prevent it. Never!
Gerard shook his head. “Mr. Ewing will not do.” He struck the name. “With regret, I throw him overboard."
"Your next candidate?” Quentin asked.
"Lieutenant Claude Edgerton, a cousin of mine."
"Edgerton is a personable gentleman who thoroughly savors life, although perhaps too much so. Even though he is your cousin, I trust you will take no offense if I speak frankly."
"No, no offense, he's a third cousin, actually. Barely acquainted with the chap."
Nodding, Quentin went on. “Edgerton is, I understand—I cannot speak from personal knowledge—a four-bottle man and a gamester who has become the target of the cent-per-centers. He has the reputation of being a man who makes a habit of voweling debts."
"Voweling debts? Is that cant?"
"It means giving his IOU's to all and sundry. If he fails to drink himself to death, leaving an impoverished widow behind, I expect he may end his days an exile in Calais or some other haven for debtors."
He would never condemn Justine to a marriage with such an utter scoundrel as Claude Edgerton, Quentin told himself. Never!
Without saying a word, Gerard crossed the name of Lieutenant Edgerton from his rapidly shrinking list. “Next we have a gentleman who, though some might label him a tradesman, is a man with literary credentials—Mr. Sebastian Cloverly, the bookseller."
"The Cloverly with the shop on Piccadilly? Ah, yes, Cloverly, I know him well, a rather starched though enterprising man of business whose principal income derives from first commissioning the memoirs of aging and impoverished demimondes and then requesting payments from the gentlemen who, in their youth, were overly amorous while at the same time indiscreet, but who are now aging. These respectable aristocrats have no desire to receive unfavorable public attention and so are more than willing to pay large sums to your Mr. Cloverly to have the accounts of their unseemly adventures stricken from his soon-to-be-published manuscripts."
"Oh dear,” Gerard murmured, “oh dear, oh dear."
"If this enterprising method of doing business meets with your approval, Mr. Cloverly might prove an excellent prospect for Miss Riggs. Oh, yes, looking at the other side of the coin, the darker side, he does have one somewhat unfortunate characteristic; alas, your Mr. Cloverly is reputed by those close to him to eschew regular bathing and although, to his everlasting credit, he makes frequent and liberal use of a variety of perfumeries, he habitually gives off what was described to me as ‘a most unpleasant stench.’”
Quentin wrinkled his nose. Mr. Cloverly would never do for Justine. Never!
"He will never do,” Gerard said, echoing Quentin's thoughts. “Alas and alack, I have only one more name to suggest, and that is Mr. Gavin Spencer of Prospect Hall, a neighbor of mine."
"I know him only by his reputation which is quite out-of-the-ordinary. Exemplary, in fact. Gavin Spencer is an adventurer and an author, an explorer whose latest expedition set out last year to travel up the Nile seeking the headwaters of that mighty river somewhere in the legendary Mountains of the Moon. From what I hear, he courts danger, almost recklessly risking an untimely end by scaling Alpine peaks during the avalanche season or by swimming the treacherous Hellespont or by risking his life fighting for Wellington on the Peninsula. My one and only reservation is that Mr. Spencer seems almost too much of a good thing. He behaves as though he had something to prove to the rest of us.” Quentin shook his head. “If only he were in England! Gavin Spencer is, however, still somewhere in the jungles of central Africa."
Although he could not be certain why, Quentin was quite unable to picture Justine married to Gavin Spencer despite Spencer's sterling character. Fortunately, Spencer was many miles from English shores.
Gerard stared down at his list as he sadly shook his head. “We must,” he said as, rising, he returned the list to his pocket, “give this matter additional thought. Perhaps you, Quentin, could suggest a suitable gentleman for us to consider."
Quentin closed his eyes and pursed his lips as he made every effort to think of a likely prospect. No, try as he might, there was no one he could imagine being married to Justine Riggs. “As of now, no, but if a name occurs to me, I shall most certainly inform you at once."
The two men left the library and were descending the great staircase when Quentin saw Ogden Stewart hurrying along the lower hall toward them holding a newspaper aloft. Ogden stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waved the paper exultantly. “Good news!” he called up to them. “The Times reports he returned to London last week."
"Who returned to London?” Gerard asked.
Quentin, with a feeling of dismay he found difficult to explain, seemed to know the answer to Gerard's question even before Ogden said, “Why, Mr. Gavin Spencer, of course. And he intends to come to Prospect Hall for an extended stay."
CHAPTER 10
There was, Justine sensed, something in the air at Kinsdale Manor, something concerning herself or so the overheard murmur of voices told her—the buzz of whispered conversations behind unfurled fans followed by sudden silences when she made her appearance. She found herself the object of covert glances, of knowing nods, and speculative and appraising stares.
Is something truly amiss, or am I only imagining there is? She had, admittedly, been restless of late and subject to idle fancies. Ever since the night of the eclipse she had been all at sea, far out of her depth, as though she had waded into the calm ocean from the beach at Brighton and, all at once stepped into a bottomless trough where she discovered herself flailing her arms and legs to keep afloat.
The fault lay entirely with Quentin Fletcher. No, not Quentin, why did she continue to think of him i
n such a familiar fashion? To her he was now and would be henceforth Lord Devon. But whether she thought of him formally or not, thinking of him agitated her senses, bringing new and altogether strange longings to life. Clenching her hands, she drew in a series of deep breaths as she willed herself not to dwell on what had happened on Round Hill.
There was no doubt that Lord Devon had behaved abominably; her every feeling had been offended. He acted as he had to avenge himself for her having the temerity to challenge him in the race in the Park. Why else would he have taken such liberties? Evidently he believed himself to be a second Lord Byron whose very presence caused women to swoon in helpless adoration. What foolishness! If this was what Lord Devon believed, he was very much mistaken, at least as far as she was concerned.
She must, though, be completely honest with herself.
She had, shamelessly—if only for the briefest of instants—returned his kiss. But only because he had taken her by surprise, stalking her while concealed by the darkness of the eclipse.
Justine drew in her breath. True, the night had been very dark, but was it possible that someone had, unbeknownst to her, seen him gather her into his arms, seen Quentin kiss her? Was that the reason Prudence and Daphne, and Ogden and Gerard as well, seemed to share a secret, a secret that concerned her?
Just this morning, shortly after breakfast, Justine had glimpsed Ogden showing Daphne an item in the Times. On seeing Justine, he hastily folded the newspaper and put it aside. Later she had retrieved the paper, but when she scanned its contents—a naval skirmish in the war with the United States, a speech by Henry “Orator” Hunt, the unbounded public enthusiasm for the visiting German General Blucher and the return to England from North Africa of the explorer Gavin Spencer—she found nothing that could possibly concern her. How puzzling.
Never one to fret silently, Justine sought out Prudence, found her in the drawing room and came directly to the point. “I suspect that you and Daphne and others as well are talking about me behind my back."
The older woman's hands flew to cover her mouth; she looked at the ceiling, at the floor, to the right and to the left, but never at Justine. She stammered as she said, “You believe that Daphne and I ... that Ogden and Gerard and I ... that all four of us ... are somehow involved in some connivance having to do with you? Whatever in the world gave you such a notion?"
Justine told her all she had observed.
"The Times? Whispered conversations behind fans?” Prudence sat down heavily on a couch and, despite the coolness of the evening, proceeded to vigorously fan herself. “My heart is all aflutter. I feel quite faint.” Justine waited patiently until, as she knew would happen, Prudence regained some measure of composure.
"When you came to me from Gravesend,” the older woman said at last, “I pledged to myself to see you properly married. As, on more than one occasion, I believe I told you."
"True enough,” Justine said.
"However, and despite the best efforts of your tutor, Monsieur Lambert, and myself, all my plans seemed to come to naught and so, I must admit, I did request the help of certain of my friends and they kindly consented, for my sake and for yours, to come to my aid."
Justine stared at her, aghast and angry. “All four of you? Seeking ways to marry me off? Am I so lacking in the feminine graces that I require the urgent attentions of two gentlemen and two ladies in addition to a tutor?"
Prudence sighed. “Our only intent was, and is, to take the place of the mother you unfortunately never had. You are of a marriageable age, Justine, and you must admit you have few if any prospects."
Shamed despite herself but at the same time vexed, Justine bit back an angry answer, turned and, half-ran and half-walked from the drawing room. Starting up the stairs, she abruptly changed her mind and, seeking the open air, hurried through the Blue Room to the terrace where she stood with her hands gripping the back of a bench that faced the downward slope of the side lawn.
As her anger slowly ebbed, tears of frustration and self-pity stung her eyes. Everything Prudence had said about her was right, she was a complete and absolute failure. As a woman. She could not blame her father for her failure since he had loved her and raised her the best he knew how. No, it was totally her fault. She could and did observe how other young ladies her age behaved and yet she did not try to emulate them.
As she well knew, a young lady's foremost duty in life was to seek and find a suitable gentleman who would woo and win her hand and, hopefully, her heart. She had not found such a man, seemingly she would never find one and, therefore, she was hopeless.
Justine looked overhead and saw, through a rift in the scudding clouds, a single star twinkling in the northern sky, probably the North Star, reminding her of the many times she had, in years past, gazed at the North Star as she imagined wayfarers all around the globe viewing it that very same moment and depending on its unvarying position above the pole to guide them as they sailed across uncharted seas or trekked through unmapped lands.
She had always longed to travel, to America, perhaps, or to the exotic Orient or to Australia to view the Southern constellations. But she had never in her eighteen years journeyed more than sixty miles from where she stood at this very moment. She had often watched ships set sail from Gravesend bound for foreign ports, for Constantinople, Singapore, Rio de Janeiro, Philadelphia, and Cape Town. She had dreamed of being on board those ships, of crossing the sea to places she had never been where she would witness sights she had only imagined.
Someday I will journey to other lands, she had promised herself, and she repeated that pledge now. The heavens, wondrous as they were, could only be viewed from afar, but this immense and infinitely varied world, this earth, could be explored by anyone intrepid enough to challenge the unknown, by anyone willing to forsake the comforts of hearth and home. She might never be able to attract a suitable husband, but she did have the courage and the will to travel. How foolish she had been to pity herself.
As she watched, clouds swept across the North Star, leaving the heavens dark. A dog barked in the Manor kennel, from the stables came the neigh of a horse, and then the summer night was silent. With a sigh of regret for her deferred dream of journeying into the unknown, but with a renewed determination to make that dream come true sooner rather than later, Justine returned to the house.
She must go to Prudence forthwith and apologize for her unseemly behavior. Prudence did mean well.
The curling thread of a ballad played on a pianoforte drew her from the Blue Room into the great hall and then along the hall toward the brightly lighted music room. The door was open and, as she approached and heard an underlying murmur of voices and soft laughter, she recalled that a musical evening had been planned.
Pausing just outside the doorway, her eyes were drawn not to the attractive fair-haired young lady playing the piano—her name, Justine recalled, was Phillippa—nor to the vase of pink and white daisies on the piano behind the music rack. She didn't look at the niche in the wall behind Phillippa with its statue of a partially garbed Diana walking with a dog at her side, the huntresses’ flowing robes draped to expose her breasts and bare her left leg to the thigh. All she saw was Quentin Fletcher who sat on the piano bench beside Phillippa, his gaze intent on her lovely face as he absently turned the sheets of music for her.
Phillippa, her pink lips slightly parted, her eyes almost closed, her golden hair circled by a pearl coronet matching the single strand of pearls encircling her neck, wore a flowing white silk gown that bared her shoulders and the upper curves of her breasts.
Justine's throat tightened and she felt the sting of tears. Determined not to cry even though she felt herself to be a stranger alone in a strange land, she turned her back on the soft glow of the lamps, the lilt of laughter and the gentle strains of the ballad that spoke to her of a hopeless, unrequited love.
Walking dispiritedly away from the music room she came face to face with Daphne Gauthier. Not wanting to talk to anyone, Justine nodded
and stepped to one side only to have Daphne place a hand on her wrist.
"Come with me,” Daphne said after glancing beyond Justine at the open door to the music room. “I must tell you about my dream since it concerns you, Justine, and your future."
Without waiting for a yes or no, Daphne turned and led Justine to her room in the east wing of the Manor where she sat at her dressing table, her back to the mirror, and waved Justine to a high-backed white and gold chair.
"When I napped this afternoon,” Daphne said, “I had the most unusual dream. I saw a long ship, a ship with a single square sail the color of the sun and a prow fashioned in the shape of a red dragon's head. More than a score of warriors manned the ship's oars, thrusting the vessel through the waves. A chieftain stood in the prow, a tall stalwart warrior with hair the color of wheat.” The light from the candle on the table by the bed glistened in Daphne's eyes as she recalled her dream. “The warrior's magnificent bronzed chest was bared to the wind and to the spray from the sea. The sun glinted from his horned helmet and from the unsheathed sword he held aloft in his right hand. In his other hand he carried a round, painted shield."
"You seem to be describing a Viking,” Justine said, her interest caught despite her skepticism. “Is that what he was?"
"He may well have been,” she said, waving the question away as unimportant. “The warriors, Vikings or whatever they were, beached their ship on a pebbled strand and their chieftain led them ashore, ransacking a village, an English village, and setting it ablaze with the fire from their torches. The chieftain left his men to their plunderings, climbing a promontory overlooking the sea and there at the crest, came to a strange structure, a small gazebo-like building with a walkway around all four sides."
Daphne was describing, Justine realized with a start of recognition, her observatory in Gravesend.
"I knew, as you sometimes know in dreams, that you, Justine, had taken refuge inside the gazebo, bolting the single door. Mere locks and bolts could never stop this man. He stepped back, raised his foot and kicked the door open. You screamed. You fought him. You clawed at his face. All to no avail. He swept you into his arms and carried you through the burning village to his ship and sailed into the mist."