The Notorious Lord Havergal

by Joan Smith

  She whipped her hands away, fighting back tears of anger and shame. “You must not feel compelled to sympathize, Lord Havergal. I am not quite on the verge of expiring yet. I doubt you will expect condolences in three months when you reach my advanced years. Though of course you will not have to face the odium of being called a spinster,” she added tartly.

  “What’s in a name?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood. “I see you have not put on your caps in any case.” He let his eyes linger admiringly on her black hair. It formed an attractive frame around her pale face, coming to a point in the middle of her forehead. He found himself gazing into her eyes. She had truly fine eyes, her best feature. Serious eyes, dark gray with golden flecks.

  Lettie was flustered at that look and spoke brusquely to hide her embarrassment. “I did, two years ago, but I took them off again.”

  “Ah—you met a gentleman!” he said roguishly.

  “I found the caps a nuisance. They kept slipping off. Would you like to go back to the library now? Perhaps some coffee and a fire ...”

  “Please, don’t trouble yourself. I have just had coffee, and it is warm enough to do without a fire.

  In fact, I believe I’ll just step out into that charming garden.”

  “If you like.”

  “Are you the gardener?”

  “I have an herb garden. Violet does the flowers.”

  “That is appropriate!” he exclaimed. She gave him a blank look. “Violet—flowers,” he said, feeling foolish.

  “Oh, yes. And I expect that makes me an herb.”

  “No, an herbalist,” he said, defeated. Some men, Samuel Johnson decreed, were not clubbable. Miss Beddoes was not flirtable.

  He left, feeling as foolish as he had ever felt in his life. What a thing to say! God, quite apart from wanting to get Miss Beddoes into a good mood, that was a wretched thing to say to any older lady. And she looked so stricken. She wasn’t really that old. He would be especially nice to her during the rest of the day.

  Lettie remained behind, thinking. The meeting and Havergal’s awkward outburst had devastated her. To make the matter worse, she had taken the ridiculous idea that he wanted her company when he asked her to show him the gallery. Wanted it not just to plead for his money, but to be with her. In short, she thought he found her attractive, and all along he thought she was an old lady. He pitied her. She saw the sympathy in his eyes when he reached for her fingers. He was an impulsive creature. Quick to wound by a thoughtless word and quick to regret it. A man ruled by his passions. She had never met one before.

  And it was his passion for gambling that brought him here, that forced him to be civil to her. She knew it perfectly well. Yet even knowing it, knowing he thought her an old lady, she could not totally harden her heart against him. The way he had studied her hair and face when they were talking about caps—the admiration in his eyes had seemed genuine, and he hadn’t mentioned the money again. In any case, she would enjoy the trip into Ashford on his arm. How her friends would stare!

  She went upstairs to look over her bonnets and select the most attractive for the outing. She had bought a new bonnet for springtime, but it would not do in the open carriage. Standing in front of her mirror, she frowned at her coiffure, her face, and her gown. Plain, countrified. She was not only old, but an old dowdy. She wished with all her heart she had some dashing London gowns to put on and astonish Havergal, but she had no such articles. She turned from the mirror and left the room.

  She glanced in an open door to a guest room as she went down the hall. To her utter astonishment, she saw Jamie, a lower footman, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. She hurried in. “Jamie, what is the matter?” she asked.

  He lifted a pale face and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “I think I’m coming down with something, mum,” he said weakly.

  “Oh dear! And Cook was feeling poorly, too. I must have Dr. Cooley in. You’d best go to bed. It is fortunate we are dining out this evening, for it seems the whole household of servants has taken ill.”

  Her greater concern was that she would take ill herself to cause further ravages to her appearance, with the treat of a curricle ride and the trip to Canterbury awaiting her. She sent for the doctor and went to her room. Through the window she saw Havergal strolling through the garden. He seemed genuinely interested in it. Odd, to see a city buck like Havergal enjoying a country garden. How attractive he looked, even from this height. A squirrel caught his attention, and he made a game of trying to draw it nearer. It ignored him. He leaned forward and smelled the honeysuckle, then snapped off a twig and stuck it in his lapel. When he took the path to the stable, she left the window.

  The face in the mirror reassured her that she wasn’t ill. She looked a little more tired than usual, but it was Havergal’s infamous comment that accounted for that. His presence in the house and the duke’s pending visit lent an unusual excitement to her day and prevented further repining. What was there to regret? She was only a few minutes older than when she had gone into the gallery, and she felt fine then. She was twenty-seven, not ninety-seven. What difference did age make anyway? You were only as old as you felt, and on this spring day she felt young. Havergal and his opinions were nothing to her.

  The sunshine and flowers beyond her window lifted her heart. It was spring, and there was the assembly looming close. She felt, for the first time in years, a young restlessness and a determination to wrest a few surprises from life before she really was old. Havergal hadn’t thought twenty-seven too old for marriage in any case.

  She lifted her new spring bonnet from its form and examined it. She must keep it for Canterbury, but she put it on and examined herself. It was a more dashing bonnet than she usually wore, and the strange thing was that Violet had accused her of buying a widow’s bonnet when she came home with it. The plain black straw had been rather severe, so she added a ribbon and a flower. A narrow band of pink satin encircled the crown, and from the brim one pink rose peeped flirtatiously. It was not a deb’s bonnet, but a bonnet for a dashing older lady. Her only fear was that it was too sophisticated for Ashford, but it was certainly not too sophisticated for a duke and a viscount—and an archbishop.

  Chapter Six

  Lettie filled the time till Violet and Havergal returned from their outing by arranging tomorrow’s dinner party. This meant a battle with Mrs. Siddons to augment the already lavish meal, but first she studied her guest list, seeing it with her new guests’ eyes. Mr. Norton was the last person she wanted to have sit down with the duke and Lord Havergal, but he was a close friend, and he would be mortally wounded if he were put off.

  No, unthinkable to offend her friends to impress mere acquaintances. And there was Miss Millie, Norton’s sister cum housekeeper. The Smallbones from the next estate were presentable, and that left only the vicar and his wife to round it off. No apologies were required for a vicar, but her mind would compare him to the Archbishop of Canterbury. That made a total of five couples, ten people in all, about as ill-sorted a group as she had ever assembled under her roof.

  At least it was only for dinner. They would be leaving immediately after for the assembly. She called Cook into her office for the confrontation regarding the new menu.

  “I don’t suppose turtle soup is possible?” Lettie asked doubtfully.

  Cook rustled her aprons and sniffed. “Where would we be getting a turtle, mum? There’s never been a turtle in Ashford.”

  “Fish then. A nice fresh salmon.”

  “The fishmonger likes a week’s warning for salmon. I’ve ordered turbot, which will do as well with my white sauce.” Lettie gave up pretending she had anything to say about the menu, and Cook continued. “Luckily I have a brace of dandy green geese hanging out back. With some of our own mutton, peas, and turnips you need not blush for your dinner.”

  “And pork for Mr. Norton. Now for dessert, perhaps that peach cake with cream?”

  “We ate the last of the peach preserves when your uncle was here las
t week.”

  “Pity.”

  “I can substitute apples.”

  “Oh not apples, Cook. I want something special."

  “I’ll have a look at my book and come up with something grand enough for a duke’s tooth, never fear.”

  “Make sure you don’t burn it. The gammon at breakfast was wretched.” Cook gave a mutinous look. “I expect you have a touch of whatever is ailing all the servants,” Lettie said forgivingly. “You do look a little flushed, Mrs. Siddons.”

  Her cook made no reply to this but just rose silently and left, feeling as guilty as sin. It was that half bottle Cuttle had left behind the night before that had done the mischief. Siddons was dead set against her drinking. She only meant to taste it, but it was so good, and she was hot and tired from making her bread. At least the mistress was in the dark about it—and Siddons would never give her away.

  At ten o’clock Miss FitzSimmons arrived home, her bonnet askew, her hair flying out from under it, her cheeks pink, and her smile as broad as the sofa.

  “It is incredible, Lettie. Sixteen miles an hour! I felt I was flying. We passed Mr. Smallbone and nearly bowled him off the road, but Havergal is such an excellent fiddler that he squeaked us past unharmed. Bundle up, for the wind nearly carries you away.”

  “Good gracious, Violet! You’re all blown to pieces.”

  “So exhilarating! There is nothing like it. Havergal is waiting out front.”

  “Havergal? You sound very familiar.”

  “He asked me to stop calling him Lord Havergal. And he called me Violet,” she confessed. It was hard to tell, but Lettie thought she was blushing—and well she might.

  “I am surprised at you, Violet. No, I am more than surprised. I am shocked. You have known Mr. Norton ten years and have never called him Ned. You scarcely know Lord Havergal.”

  “London manners,” Violet said offhandedly. “We do not wish to appear too provincial.”

  “What is truly provincial is a belief that London is the top of the world—and an eagerness to ape London manners,” she added tartly.

  Yet as Lettie lifted her plain round bonnet to put on, she wished it were a smarter, more London-looking bonnet. She tied the ribbons tightly under her chin and went out. This was her first view of Havergal’s dashing curricle. It gleamed golden yellow in the sun, accoutred with much gleaming silver. The frisky grays harnessed up to it appeared perfectly fresh. They pawed the ground in their eagerness to be off. It occurred to Lettie that the seat was very high off the ground and very insecurely guarded. A railing only eight inches high was all that held the passenger in her seat. Even getting into that high seat promised some difficulty.

  Havergal leapt down from his perch and came to her assistance. The marauding wind that had undone Violet’s coiffure left Havergal’s untouched. No wisps of hair escaped the curled beaver, set at a jaunty angle on his head. His face was ruddy, but his complexion was customarily high.

  “It’s not as treacherous as it looks,” he smiled, seeing her consternation. “Just put one foot here,” he continued, indicating a metal disk that served as a toehold.

  He steadied her with an arm around her waist as she ascended. It was not a flirtatious gesture. No unnecessary pressure was applied, nor did the hand linger, but Lettie was aware of the latent strength in the arm that protected her. When she was safely ensconced, Havergal lifted his head and smiled. She felt a tug of attraction toward that winning smile.

  “It’s quite comfortable really,” she admitted.

  He vaulted up to the seat beside her and took the reins. “You sound surprised, Miss Beddoes. Did you think I would submit you to any danger?”

  “Not purposely,” she allowed.

  He gave the team the office to be off. Lettie’s neck jerked back at the unexpected speed of their takeoff. As the team continued at a fast, though steady, pace through the park toward the main road, she settled down to a rather nervous enjoyment of the sensation. Riding in an open curricle was a completely different sensation from rattling along at seven or eight miles an hour in her own lumbering carriage. The sun seemed brighter, the scenery greener, and the whole experience much more exciting. She felt like a goddess, sitting high on her throne, looking down on mere mortals below.

  They were fast approaching the main road, and Havergal wanted to steer her away from Ashford. He was by no means certain Crymont would have sent the girls home yet. They had come from London to Ashford yesterday. Certainly they had remained overnight, and if they left without touring the shops, it was more than he dared to count on.

  “I took Miss FitzSimmons to Kingsnorth,” he said. “Shall we go that way? The drive is pretty.”

  “You forget, Lord Havergal. You were to take me to Ashford to purchase new gloves.”

  Her reply left little room for maneuvering. His heart sank. “There was a very pretty shop at Kingsnorth.”

  “Not so good as Mercer’s, in Ashford. I have seen the gloves I want to buy. I shan’t keep you dawdling about the rows of buttons and pins for an hour, if that is what you fear,” she replied, still in good humor.

  He risked one more putting-off sally. “Why don’t we drive west, toward Tonbridge? I’ve never been that way.”

  “There is virtually nothing on that road till you reach Tonbridge,” she pointed out.

  “Let us go to Tonbridge.”

  “When we are driving all the way to Canterbury this afternoon? You are fond of driving, Lord Havergal. Much fonder than I. Ashford will be far enough. You turn right here,” she said as they reached the main road.

  He had no choice but to do as she asked. He did not give up entirely, however. It was still three miles to Ashford. He would discover some diversion along the way. At every byway he slowed down and inquired what lay down that road.

  “Only Norton’s farm,” she replied the first time. Another time it was “The local abattoir. I cannot believe you would want to go there.” When he inquired a third time, Lettie found it strange. “Do you have some particular aversion to being seen with me in Ashford, sir?” she asked quite briskly.

  Her interpretation of his reluctance threw him off balance. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said in confusion. “What aversion could I possibly have to being seen in your company?”

  “I don’t know either, unless it is this horrid bonnet, for my character is excellent, I promise you.” She carefully avoided any mention of her advanced years.

  “Better than mine, certainly,” he returned with a teasing smile. “It is your reputation I fear for, you see, being seen on the strut with that wastrel, Havergal. That is what my friends call me, Havergal. I wish you would do the same.” He lifted his blue eyes and examined her fleetingly. “And the bonnet, by the by, is charming.”

  After that bit of innocent flirtation, Lettie was much inclined to do as he suggested and dispense with the “Lord,” but as she had delivered Violet a lecture, she felt some demur was necessary. “We are hardly more than acquaintances,” she pointed out.

  “We are connections through Horace’s marriage to your—what was she—cousin?”

  “Yes, but--"

  “And you are my guardian. Now surely a charge may call his guardian by her Christian name when he is shamelessly battening himself on her. You cannot call on propriety, Miss Beddoes. We have been carrying on a most improper, clandestine correspondence for a twelvemonth. It is high time we stop lording and missing each other. I shan’t ‘miss’ you till I leave,” he joked. “That is a pun, ma’am. Are you not going to remind me of Dennis’s excellent setdown: A man who could make so vile a pun would not hesitate to pick a man’s pocket.’ Come now, show me your claws.”

  “By deriding your own conversation, you leave me nothing to say.”

  He turned a jeering smile in her direction. “You could say I might call you Lettie.”

  “Very well then. You may call me Lettie,” she said primly.

  He acknowledged it with a gallant bow and a smile. His eyes soon veered l
eft to another road and another possibility of reprieve. “Don’t even think it,” she said. “An extremely bizarre hermit lives in a cave down that road. He shoots anyone who trespasses.”

  “I don’t see any signs posted.”

  “You’ll feel the bullets if you dare to enter.”

  To offer any further objections to Ashford would only confirm her suspicions, so Havergal steeled himself for the visit. He’d whisk her in and out of the shop as quickly as possible and pray they didn’t meet Crymont and his friends.

  “You can stable your rig at the Royal Oak,” she mentioned when they entered the town.

  His heart sank to his boots. “I’ll just leave it at the curb.”

  “We might bump into Crymont at the inn,” she tempted.

  He controlled his shiver and replied, “You said you would not be long.”

  “I thought you might like to stroll down High Street. There is a church with a rather fine perpendicular tower toward the end of the street. It has some interesting monuments and brasses. Or perhaps you are not interested in churches?”

  “One cathedral a day is usually enough for me,” he said, reminding her of the trip to Canterbury.

  Canterbury was not Ashford. No one she knew would see her with Havergal there. She sighed and pointed out the drapery shop a block away.

  Havergal scanned the street. It was not so very busy at an early hour in the morning. He saw at a glance that Crymont was not about and decided to risk the stroll to please her, but he dare not stable his rig at the Royal Oak. He tossed a street urchin a coin to hold his team while they entered the shop. The purchase of the gloves took only minutes, as she had promised. What took so much time was being presented to her friends. Miss Beddoes seemed to know every soul in the shop, presented them all to him, and did it with a peculiarly proprietary air.

  Havergal was not a vain man, but it eventually occurred to him that she was showing off her exhibit. She wanted her friends to see she had a young lord, a bachelor, staying with her. It was her friends who slyly inquired for Lady Havergal, and Miss Beddoes was not slow to enlighten them of his marital status. Some corner of her cast-iron mind had taken note of the fact that he was eligible, then. Perhaps she was not so unflirtable as he thought.