Romantic Rebel

by Joan Smith

  "She lives with her aunt, Lady DeGrue," I said, also vaguely.

  "Bound to be the same family. Bonham is not at all a common name. Norman blood, I should think. At least it has a Frenchified sound to it. If that's who she is, she is related to half the nobility of Britain."

  "And a fortune besides," Annie unwisely added.

  "A pity we could not have gone out with her," Geoffrey said.

  "Yes," Annie said, nodding, "for she will be gypped of her visit to the Pump Room. She will not want to go alone, but perhaps she will go home and ask her aunt to accompany her."

  I, in my innocence, felt nothing but joy when Geof­frey rose to leave. "I shall return tomorrow and see how you go on," he said. "Meanwhile, I'll begin look­ing about for a carriage and team."

  "Please, don't bother. You will be missed at home, Geoffrey. You really ought to get back to the Hall," I urged.

  "I can spare a week to visit my cousin," he insisted, and left at once.

  A week! As soon as the door closed, Annie turned a knowing face in my direction. "He's on his way to the Pump Room to dangle after Isabel," she said.

  "She won't be there. She'll be at the Crescent Gar­dens. Better Geoffrey than Lord Ronald, in any case. Lady DeGrue gave Etherington short shrift. I hope Isabel doesn't do something foolish."

  It was soon revealed that Mr. Bellows had been broadcasting my good fortune through the house. Mrs. Speers came pounding upstairs. She had just fin­ished work. Her thumb and index finger were black with ink, and her hair was like a haystack, but at least she was sober. "Is it true?" she demanded. "You have come into a fortune, Miss Nisbitt? I wondered when you told me you were leaving yesterday. I told Mr. Bellows it could not be as much as twenty-five thousand, or you would take a house, not rooms in the Westgate Buildings. Twenty-five hundred, was it?"

  "I told Mr. Bellows not to say anything!"

  She gave me a very sly look. "What is the secret, Miss Nisbitt? A scandal never rests unknown for long in Bath. If you have taken a cher ami, the ton will know all about it in a matter of days—hours. Is it Paton?" she inquired greedily.

  "No! How dare you suggest such a thing!"

  I did not want her retailing this slanderous idea, and to ingratiate her, I poured a glass of wine while deciding what to tell her. She would have preferred gin, but was no foe to alcohol in any form.

  "The money was left to me by a relation," I said. "Lord Paton has nothing to do with it. The man Mr. Bellows met was a Mr. Nesbitt. I am surprised he did not tell you so."

  "He said he called himself Nisbitt, but then, he would, wouldn't he, if he was trying to put a decent face on the matter?"

  "The matter is decent! I have inherited some money. Surely that is nothing new in life."

  She finished her glass and poured herself another. The second glass made her mellow. "It sounds like a novel," she said dreamily. "Only I shall have Emmeline truly believe the money comes from an uncle, only to discover after she has spent most of it on charity—orphans perhaps—that it comes from the villain, who now has her in thrall."

  Annie hid the bottle, and I assisted Mrs. Speers downstairs in case she should trip and kill herself. "How wretchedly everything is turning out!" I said when I returned. "I had not thought getting hold of a fortune would be so terribly unpleasant."

  "It wouldn't be if you hadn't come here under false pretences." Annie sulked. The enervating events of the day were grinding at her nerves too.

  Wine had worked to soothe the savage Mrs. Speers, and Annie and I decided to give it a try. It helped a little, but the good of the first glass was undone by the arrival of a note from Lord Paton. When I read it, I deeply regretted having left the writing of the notes to Annie.

  Dear Miss Nesbitt,

  I am sorry to hear you are not feeling well. I am not quite clear regarding Miss Potter's instruc­tions. Do you wish me to put off Mr. Percival re the rooms till you are feeling better, or to inform him you are not interested at all? And if not, why not, if you don't mind a friend's vulgar curiosity? You won't find a better bargain elsewhere. I look forward to hearing from you. Hope you are feeling better tomorrow.

  Regards, Paton

  "Annie, I told you to tell Paton we did not want the rooms! What did you say?"

  "That is exactly what I did tell him. I told him you were ill, and we did not want the rooms. I don't see how we could have misunderstood."

  There was nothing wrong with Paton's understanding. In her excitement, Annie had said some such thing as I was ill, and could not see the rooms. I wrote an answer myself, and made it perfectly clear that we did not want the rooms, but were thankful for his ef forts on our behalf.

  Ingenuity failed me in the matter of an excuse for the death of our interest, and I said only that his vulgar curiosity would be satisfied when next we met. This would not occur until Cousin Geoffrey was bounced back to Milverton, if I had anything to say about it. Having painted him an ogre in my essay, I did not want Paton to meet such an obliging person. Geoffrey, Papa, and the will were the only excuses I had to offer for my unconventional behavior.

  We took what pleasure we could from reading the papers left by the solicitor and envisaging a future free of money woes. The money brought so many difficulties with it that I half thought I should return to Milverton with Geoffrey, or perhaps go to London. Receiving a fortune from the death of a relative def­initely required mourning. Strict mourning defi­nitely precluded enjoying my wealth. I foresaw a troubled future of explaining my situation to such sly and curious questioners as Lady DeGrue. She would not be put off with half answers. And there was Mrs. Speers, as well as accusing me of being a lightskirt.

  We discussed it till dinnertime, then had dinner and discussed it some more. "Everything looks blacker at night," Annie consoled me. She was dead set against returning to Milverton for a period of mourning. She was so captivated by Pepper that she did not wish to leave him. And to tell the whole truth, I was not at all eager to leave Paton. "We'll think about it tomorrow," she told me.

  The next day brought new troubles. I scampered into the bedroom when the door knocker sounded, and through the panel I heard a mumble of voices. The first distinguishable one was Geoffrey's, asking how I was.

  "She's coming along," Annie assured him.

  To my horror, I heard Isabel's higher voice asking, "May I go in to see her, Miss Potter?"

  "I'll just see if she's awake," Annie replied, and came to my door. We held our brief conversation in whispers.

  "Did they arrive together?" I demanded.

  "Yes, he found out at the Pelican where she lives, and went to call yesterday. Such encroaching man­ners. He laid the butter on with a trowel, and Lady DeGrue allowed Isabel to drive out with him today."

  "Good God, then DeGrue and Isabel know the truth about me."

  "I don't know what he told them."

  "You had best send him in."

  "Isabel wants to see you. He didn't ask to."

  "Send him in first. Tell him something urgent has arisen."

  Annie ducked out, and in a moment Geoffrey's glowering visage was at the door. "Emma, I am shocked at you!" he said accusingly. "Imagine my horror to learn you have been jauntering about to balls and parties as though your father were not still warm in his grave."

  "You didn't tell them!"

  "Of course not," he snapped. "Your behavior reflects on me. I gaped when Lady DeGrue told me she met you at an assembly at the Upper Rooms. She was delighted that Miss Bonham has acquired such a lively yet perfectly respectable friend. I tried to cover my gaping by saying you were not usually much interested in social doings, but she looked sus­picious. And how are we to account for your sudden wealth if we don't tell them your father just died?"

  I made sure Geoffrey would have revealed me for the farouche creature I am, and suspected the fact that Lord Paton had befriended me had something to do with his reticence.

  "I can hardly tell them that!" I snapped back.

  "I have been co
njuring with this knot all day, and have a suggestion. We could leave for Milverton im­mediately, say your father is ill, and not announce for a few days that he is dead. Then you can return to Bath—in mourning—and resume your friend­ships."

  "That's impossible. I've already told them he died a year ago."

  Geoffrey pondered this a moment. "We could say an uncle died, or an aunt. Lady DeGrue inquired about the black mourning band I am wearing. For­tunately she asked after I had learned of your active social life. I said that a cousin had died, which is true, as far as it goes."

  "Then this cousin could have left me his worldly goods, you mean?"

  "Precisely, and you will go into mourning at once."

  "But I don't want to go into mourning, Geoffrey."

  "Have you no proper feelings, no gratitude, no shame, no sense of responsibility to your family?"

  "Of course I have—some. You know Papa and I were never close. Anger buried all proper feelings at first, but now that things are straightened out, I feel perfectly wretched. I am very sorry Papa is dead, but decking myself out like a carrion crow for a year will not bring him back. And saying a cousin died will only complicate matters later if anyone learns the real truth. Bath is a cauldron of gossip, Geoffrey. You have no idea."

  What I did not say was that the one of main interest to me already knew the truth, and did not cut me because of it. The idea was taking root that I should tell all. It would be a nine day's wonder, the disinherited daughter who scorned society's rules and did not don black crape. If Paton stood beside me, and providing I became a pattern card of grief upon receipt of what was rightfully due me, I might be forgiven. Noble friends and a fortune will go a long way in that respect.

  But it left me with the onerous duty of mourning at that period of my life when I wanted more than ever before to get on with my life. Still, I felt it must be done, and suggested this course to Geoffrey.

  He looked like a wild man. "You mustn't think of it!" he exclaimed. "You'll be ruined. Lady DeGrue will cut you dead. She won't want anything to do with anyone connected to you. And I might as well say, Emma, that I am very fond of Isabel. It is my intention to remain in Bath till I win her hand."

  It was useless. The proper course might be best for me in the long run, but I did not want to harm Geoffrey's chances. A new suitor might be the very thing to turn Isabel's thoughts from Etherington. "Then what is to be done?" I asked.

  "Nothing, for the moment. You are not able to go out."

  "I am dying to go out! I only pretended to be ill because I didn't bring any mourning clothes, and didn't want you to know."

  "Such cunning! Such treachery! I thought I knew you, Emma. You are not at all what I took you for. A lady like Miss Bonham would never—"

  "Would she not? Don't delude yourself that she is anyone's pawn, or that she cares for you. She is hot after a noble fortune hunter who is hot after her money. She will come to worse grief than I if I don't stop her."

  Geoffrey turned pale. "Not Lord Ronald?"

  “Yes, how did you know?"

  "Everyone knows Lord Ronald. He is a byword for his profligacy. She wanted to alight from my car­riage in the Crescent Gardens and speak to him. I, like a fool, allowed her to have a word with him in private."

  "It would not surprise me in the least if they are laying plans for more clandestine meetings. Her aunt snubbed Lord Ronald, you must know. He will not dare return to the house."

  He raked his hand through his hair. "Here is a pretty kettle of fish. Should I warn Lady DeGrue?"

  "Certainly."

  "But if she hears of it, Miss Bonham will despise me. She already thinks me a pretty stuffy sort of fellow."

  "If you don't do it, she will bolt to Gretna Green and get herself shackled to Etherington."

  Geoffrey looked momentarily beaten. "He is so very handsome too, to say nothing of having a title, even if he is only a younger son."

  "I don't believe the title has much appeal for Isa­bel," I said. "She never speaks of such things."

  "Of course," he said admiringly. "She is one of the Surrey Bonhams. Lady DeGrue confirmed it. Half her family have handles to their names. That would be nothing new to her."

  Our tête-à-tête was interrupted by a tap on the door, and Isabel peeped her head in. "May I join you?" she asked, and came tripping up to the bed. "Oh, you're dressed, Emma! I thought you were in bed."

  "Just malingering. A headache," I explained, and held my hand to my forehead to substantiate this lie.

  "I shan't stay a moment. Why are you wearing that horrid old dark gown?"

  Geoffrey gave me a quelling look and spoke before I could. "Emma has just learned of our cousin's death. You remember your aunt mentioned it yes­terday. As she has no mourning gowns with her, she borrowed one from Miss Potter."

  "I'm sorry to hear it," Isabel said. She did not in­quire as to the exact degree of kindred existing be­tween the victim and myself, nor did we encourage such talk. She turned to Geoffrey and said, "We ought not to pester Emma when she has the megrim, Mr. Nesbitt. Let us continue our drive."

  "Stay for a moment, Isabel," I said. "We would like a moment alone, Geoffrey. Girl talk, you under­stand."

  He left, and Isabel cast a sheepish eye on me. "You have seen Lord Ronald," I charged.

  She pouted. "I just wanted to apologize for Auntie's rudeness."

  "Please don't see him again, Isabel. There are bet­ter men than Etherington for the taking."

  She twitched her shoulders and pouted. "No one ever bothers with me."

  "How can you say so? Cousin Geoffrey has been singing your praises this quarter hour."

  She looked pleased at this. "What did he say?"

  "I shan't tell you, or your bonnet won't fit."

  "Does he think I'm pretty?"

  "Vastly pretty."

  "Ronald says I have eyes the shade of cornflowers."

  I made little of this. "What a hackneyed piece of flattery! He cannot even bother to compliment you as you deserve. If this is a sample of his poetry, it is as bankrupt as he is. Geoffrey thought your eyes were like star sapphires, and your skin like rose petals."

  Her lips curved in delight. I had not thought Isa­bel to be a vain creature, but she was thrilled to death. "You're making that up!"

  "Indeed I am not."

  She tossed a saucy look over her shoulder. "If he were not such a dull old stick, I might take him for a flirt."

  "Geoffrey, dull!" I laughed in well-simulated dis­belief. If the silly chit wanted romance and danger and intrigue, let her have it from a harmless source. "They would be astonished to hear you say so where I come from. He acts the dullard to disarm the unwary. You must not tell your aunt he is such a rak­ish fellow, or she won't permit you to drive out with him again. He has not been too fast, I hope?"

  She wore an expression between offense and in­terest. "Not at all."

  "I have warned him to behave," I said. "You must not breathe a word of the duel."

  Her eyes grew an inch. "Mr. Nesbitt fought a duel! Oh! I wonder if Ronald ever has."

  "I shouldn't think so. He despises physical violence, does he not? I seem to recall he thought the pen mightier than the sword," I invented slyly.

  She was eager to rejoin Geoffrey after that. They took their leave before I could inform him of his new persona as a dangerous, sword-wielding rake.

  "You will call this evening, Geoffrey?" I asked rather imperatively. He read the language of the eye and knew something was afoot.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  That evening Geoffrey returned to learn what mes­sage I had for him, and was outraged that I had blackened his character.

  "A duel!" he howled. "Good God, if Lady DeGrue ever hears such a story, my hope s are doomed."

  "You have no hopes, unless Isabel mistakes you for something other than a dullard."

  He accepted this description with a self-righteous, hurt look. "Between the two of us, we have told more lies today t
han I ever told in my life before," he grouched.

  Yet he did not look so very sad. There was an air of febrile excitement about him. "Did you tell Lady De­Grue about Isabel's meeting Lord Ronald?" I asked.

  "I did, and felt like a cad to do it. She was very appreciative, however. She wants me to entertain Miss Bonham till you are recovered, Emma. I am taking her on a drive to Claverton Down tomorrow. Perhaps Lady DeGrue will accompany us. She is to let me know this evening."

  "You are returning this evening?" Annie asked.

  "By invitation. Lady DeGrue had planned to take Miss Bonham to the Lower Rooms, but as I am in mourning, we could not go there," he explained. "She fears Miss Bonham had laid plans to meet Lord Ron­ald. The scoundrel will be out in his reckoning if that was what he had in mind."

  Geoffrey looked more emotional than I had ever seen him look before. His nostrils flared, and the muscles in his jaw jerked a little. I sensed he was becoming truly fond of Isabel, and thought the bet­ter of him for it.

  "Then we shan't detain you, Geoffrey," I said. "Give my regards to Lady DeGrue and Isabel. And remember, you are a wicked flirt. Be sure to tell Isabel she is beautiful, with eyes like star sapphires and skin like rose petals."

  "Good God, she would laugh in my face. You have been reading those trashy novels again, Cousin."

  "Perhaps you should try one, to learn what would please a lady. Say something outrageous when you get Isabel alone."

  He walked differently when he left the flat. There was a bounce in his step. His hat sat at a jauntier angle. His smile held a hint of daring.

  It was this dashing gent that Lord Paton would have seen leaving the building when he arrived. He came up the stairs not two minutes after Geoffrey left. I had the strange feeling that the souls of the two men had changed bodies as they passed. Dash­ing, daring Lord Paton came in wearing a frown that belonged on my cousin. His tread was measured, though not at all slow.

  "Miss Nesbitt," he said through thin lips. He per­formed a jerky bow and added, "Miss Potter."