The Counterfeit Gentleman

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  “I have never lived in Lady Letitia’s world—” he began, but Bethia interrupted.

  “Then how do you explain our presence here?”

  “Lady Letitia has, on occasion, seen fit to enter my world.”

  Bethia found his statement harder to believe than everything he had told her previously, but looking up into his eyes, she was forced to conclude that he was telling her nothing but the simple truth.

  “Why is it,” she asked ruefully, “that every question I manage to persuade you to answer only creates more questions in my mind?”

  Before he could reply—if indeed he even intended to answer—the door was opened, and an old lady entered the room with a vitality and energy that belied her years.

  “Digory, my dear boy, I am truly delighted to see you.” Instead of giving him her hand, Lady Letitia threw her arms around his neck, then pulled his head down and kissed him on the cheek, quite as if he were her favorite grandson.

  Then turning to Bethia, the old lady inspected her from head to toe. “And you have brought along Miss Pepperell.” Bethia was astonished that her hostess knew her name, but then it was commonly understood in London that Lady Letitia knew everything about everybody.

  With what could only be termed a mischievous smile, the elderly lady said, “I can only suppose you have come to embroil me in another adventure, and I must say, I shall be glad of it. London is decidedly flat after Marseilles.”

  “As much as I hate to disappoint you, I sincerely hope that this adventure is all but over,” Digory said, pulling out a chair for his hostess. Then seating Bethia on her right, he took his own place on Lady Letitia’s left. “But I am afraid at this point we do still need your help.”

  “You know you may depend on me for anything,” she said.

  Digory was silent for a moment, then he said, “Miss Pepperell and I need to be married as quickly as possible, and the marriage must be above question. For that reason, we must secure her aunt’s permission rather than simply eloping.

  Lady Letitia turned to Bethia and said, “If any other man had said ‘need to,’ I would have assumed that the bride-to-be had been compromised—even seduced. But I know Digory too well to believe he would take advantage of a young lady. So perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what adventures you have been having that have brought you to me under these circumstances.”

  Before Bethia could reply—and she was not at all sure she could relate the story to a total stranger—the butler entered, accompanied by three footmen, each carrying loaded trays that gave off tantalizing aromas, reminding Bethia that they had left the inn without breaking their fast.

  The dishes were lined up on the sideboard, except for one plate, which was almost entirely covered by an exceedingly large beefsteak. It was placed in front of Digory.

  Owens then filled a second plate with more normal breakfast fare and set it in front of Lady Letitia.

  “And what would the young lady prefer?”

  “Just toast and hot chocolate,” Bethia said, still feeling quite intimidated by her surroundings. “I am not really hungry—”

  “Nonsense, child,” Lady Letitia said. “In my experience, when one goes adventuring, one builds up a remarkable appetite.”

  Bethia’s stomach chose that moment to growl, making it a bit difficult to continue claiming lack of hunger.

  At a nod from her hostess, the butler filled a third plate with assorted viands and placed it in front of Bethia. Then he and the footmen withdrew, closing the door behind them.

  The food was excellently prepared, and eating it gave Bethia an excuse not to talk, but dawdle though she might, eventually she reached the point that she could not swallow another morsel. Raising her eyes from her plate, she saw that Lady Letitia was again looking at her expectantly.

  “I am sure Mr. Rendel can explain what has happened better than I can,” Bethia said, casting him a look of entreaty.

  But he did not come to her rescue. Instead he said, “On the contrary, all I can tell would be hearsay. No, you had best tell her yourself.”

  Anger, Bethia discovered, was a great loosener of tongues. Thoroughly aggravated with Digory, she turned to her hostess and began her story. “It all started with my grandfather’s will.”

  Lady Letitia was a good listener, but the more Bethia talked, the more powerful her memories became, and she was shaking with emotion by the time she reached the part of the story where the villains had thrown her overboard.

  This time Digory responded to her silent plea for help, and he continued the story from there, describing their failed attempt to capture one of the kidnappers alive.

  “Well,” Lady Letitia said once the story was told, “I must say I envy you.”

  “Envy me? But I was nearly drowned,” Bethia said.

  “And you are probably thinking I belong in Bedlam,” the old lady said with a smile. “But although I have never come that close to dying, I have been bored nearly to death for more years than I care to remember. And having gone adventuring with Digory, I have discovered physical danger gives one a new zest for life. If you will pardon the cliché, all’s well that ends well. You have survived, and with time, I am sure you will likewise come to see that even if you could go back and change things, you would not have had events happen any other way.”

  If she could change things? Bethia had spent so many months wishing her grandfather had written his will differently, and yet...

  Looking across the table at Digory, she had to admit that no, she would not have had anything happen differently if it meant that she would never have met him.

  Chapter Seven

  Having faced down the dragon—Lady Letitia as it were—and come through unscathed, Bethia still found herself quite dismayed at the prospect of explaining things to her aunt. And as the coach rumbled through the streets, bringing her closer and closer to the actual confrontation, Bethia realized that she had not the faintest idea what to say. The more she thought back over her recent adventures, the more she realized that not a one of them was fit for her aunt’s ears.

  Her niece had been rescued from certain death by a smuggler? Utterly preposterous! She had slept in the same cottage with him without a chaperone? Too shocking for words! She had traveled alone in a closed carriage with him? Quite scandalous! She had twice shared a room at an inn with him? Beyond belief!

  No, if Bethia even mentioned the half of what she had gone through, her aunt would be so horrified at the gross impropriety of it all that she would never consent to the marriage.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Digory turned to her when the coach pulled to a stop and said, “If you prefer, I will do the explaining when we see your aunt.”

  “I shall be more than happy to leave everything to you,” Bethia said, feeling nothing but relief that he would be taking the burden off her shoulders.

  “Which leaves us with the problem of smuggling you into the house. It might be best if you waited in the carriage until I signal you that it is safe to enter.”

  “Do you really think the servants will be fooled? By now they must all know that I am not really sick in my room, and when I miraculously return on the same day and at the same hour when you also first appear on the scene, then it will not be difficult for them to conclude that my return is somehow connected with you.”

  “But on the other hand,” Digory pointed out, “if they do not actually see the two of us together, it will be easier for them to pretend that you have not been in my company.”

  And to that she had no reply, because she recognized the truth in what he said.

  Knowing that surprise alone was often sufficient to carry the day, Digory did not wait for the footman who opened the door to ask his name and business. “I wish to speak to Lady Clovyle,” he said, his tone unbearably supercilious.

  Then before the man could make the usual polite excuses and shut the door in his face, Digory pushed past him and entered the house without being given leave to do so.


  The servant opened his mouth to protest, but Digory forestalled him by handing over his top hat. “My business is most urgent,” he said when the man started to stammer something. “Please inform your mistress at once that I am here.”

  When the man still hesitated, Digory glared at him, and his expression was ferocious enough that the poor man visibly quailed in his shoes, and with a last few incoherent stammers, he edged his way around Digory and vanished in the direction of the back stairs.

  As soon as the footman was out of sight, Digory opened the front door and signaled to Bethia, who hurried to join him, her hooded cloak once more pulled low over her face.

  She caught his arm, but before she could speak, they heard sounds of someone approaching.

  “Wait in here,” he .whispered, shoving her bodily into a small room at the front of the house. He pulled the door almost shut, leaving it open a mere crack so that Bethia would be able to hear what transpired.

  The footman had not sought out his mistress, but had provided himself instead with the assistance of the butler, whose stately bearing made it obvious that Digory was about to be cast out into the cold ... or so the two men thought.

  “Might I inquire what business you have with Lady Clovyle?” the butler said pompously.

  “My business is of a private nature,” Digory said, his tone quite bland.

  “Lady Clovyle is not receiving guests at this time. I suggest you return at a later hour, Mister ... Mister...?”

  Digory did not give his name, nor did he take back his top hat, which the footman was smugly holding out to him. Instead he went to the door of the room in which Bethia was hiding. “I shall wait in here while you inform Lady Clovyle that I wish to speak with her.”

  Pulling the door shut behind him, he pressed his ear to the panel and could hear low voices on the other side. But no one attempted to enter the room, and after a while he heard footsteps going up the stairs, from which he surmised that his efforts to intimidate the servants had been adequate.

  “You had best conceal yourself,” he said, and Bethia looked around, then ducked behind the drapes.

  Lady Clovyle sat propped up against her pillows, sipping a cup of hot chocolate. Already her head was aching, and she was tempted to remain in bed all day. Really, it was vastly inconsiderate of her niece to disappear the way she had. There was something so common—so vulgar—about being put in a position where she had to fob people off with lies about Bethia’s having a slight fever.

  Sooner or later someone was bound to suspect—there was always some busybody who positively delighted in ferreting out such scandals—and the strain of waiting in hourly expectation of exposure was becoming unbearable. How could her niece, who despite her stubborn streak had never been in any way inconsiderate, have done something so thoughtless as to vanish?

  There was a light scratching at the door, and then a maid poked her mobcapped head in and said, “My lady?”

  “Yes, yes, do come in,” Lady Clovyle said crossly. “What is it?”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but there is a man below.”

  Instantly, the nagging headache was replaced by a sick feeling in Lady Clovyle’s middle. The time of reckoning was apparently at hand. “A man?”

  “A strange man,” the maid repeated, her eyes wide. “Mr. Uppleby says as how the man says as how he’s got urgent business with you. Mr. Uppleby says as how if you want, he will get Charlie and Joe and John Coachman to throw the man out.”

  For a moment Lady Clovyle was tempted to claim that she was too ill to see anyone, but in the end she was compelled to discover the worst. “No, no, I shall come down. Send Agnes to help me dress.”

  By the time Lady Clovyle descended to the ground floor, her headache had returned, but the pain in her stomach vied with it in intensity.

  Her niece’s butler was waiting in the entry hall, and two of the footmen were hovering anxiously behind him. “He is in here,” Uppleby said, indicating the door. “Although he is dressed as a gentleman, there is something about him I cannot trust, and I have been watching to make sure that having gained admittance to the house, he does not attempt to sneak away while our backs are turned, taking with him any of the silver or other valuables.”

  It was not a thief that Lady Clovyle feared to find in her anteroom, but the bringer of scandal, because she knew in her bones that whatever urgent business this stranger had with her, in some manner it concerned her wayward niece.

  “If you want, I could go in with you and provide some degree of protection,” Uppleby said.

  But Lady Clovyle had no desire for the servants to know any more than was absolutely necessary about this whole sordid affair. Waving him back, she entered the room alone, then closed the door firmly behind her. Doubtless the butler and footmen would immediately press their ears against the door panels, but that could not be helped.

  The visitor—and he was indeed a complete stranger to her—was standing in front of the window. With the light behind him it was difficult to see his face, but his size alone made her thankful that the three servants were right outside the door and almost made her wish she had accepted Uppleby’s offer of protection.

  “You wished to speak with me?” she said in the same voice she used to depress the pretensions of encroaching mushrooms. This time it failed to produce any noticeable effect.

  “My name is Rendel,” he said, moving away from the window. “Digory Rendel at your service.”

  Now that she could see her visitor better, she inspected him from head to toe. To be sure, he was indeed dressed like a gentleman, but Uppleby had been right: There was something about the man that made him look out of place in a lady’s drawing room.

  He was not handsome. Although his features were regular, they were a bit too strongly drawn, and as a result, he exuded a bit of something that ... that ... well whatever it was, it did not matter. She would soon be rid of him.

  “My butler informs me that you have urgent business with me. I cannot believe that such is the case, Mr. Rendel, so I suggest you quit these premises at once before I have you forcibly removed.”

  As if he had not heard a word she said, he wandered over to the fireplace and pretended great interest in the painting hanging above it. It was a portrait of her niece, taken when Bethia was but six years of age.

  “I am here on behalf of Miss Pepperell,” the man said, turning to face her.

  Despite her resolve to handle this affair with the proper decorum, Lady Clovyle’s knees weakened, and she was forced to sink down upon the chair closest to hand. “What about my niece?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. “What have you to do with her?”

  “She was abducted from this house exactly one week ago today,” he said.

  “You lie,” she croaked out, but he went on, each word more astounding than the last.

  “She was kidnapped by two men who were hired to kill her. They are now both dead.”

  It was such an obvious fib that lady Clovyle sat up straighter and said quite forcefully, “Preposterous! Such things do not happen in polite circles. You must think me quite green if you expect me to believe such a tale.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, what actually happened is that your niece eloped with me. We had intended to go to Gretna Green, but after a sennight together, she finds she has quite changed mind.”

  “No, no, Bethia would never do a thing like that—she could not be so lost to propriety,” Lady Clovyle said, feeling faint at the very thought of the scandal that would result if her niece had succumbed to the temptations of the flesh.

  That this man could appeal to the baser instincts of a woman was quite obvious. She knew now what it was about his eyes that frightened her—he looked like a man who would be much more at home in a lady’s boudoir than in her drawing room.

  While she was staring at him, he suddenly strode over to where she was sitting, and she could not keep from shrinking away from him. He was too forceful, too strong, too ... too masc
uline.

  Looming over her, he said, “You refuse to credit the truth, and you do not choose to accept a perfectly plausible Banbury tale, so there is nothing left for you to believe but your own falsehood.”

  Cowering back in her chair, Lady Clovyle said weakly, “My niece is upstairs in her own room, laid low with a slight fever.”

  “Just so,” the stranger said. “If you wish to have further discourse with me, I am staying with Lady Letitia.” His smile was mocking and his bow was insolent, and before Lady Clovyle could stop him, he turned and walked out of the room.

  “But ... but...” With unaccustomed alacrity she sprang from her chair and hurried after him. “But where is my niece?” she cried out. Her only answer was the front door closing in her face. Turning to the servants, who were attempting to disguise their eagerness to know what had transpired, she pulled herself together and attempted to salvage what she could from this whole sordid mess.

  “The man was here by mistake,” she said firmly. “He was seeking another—a different Lady Clovyle.” Her lie sounded implausible even to her own ears.

  “Then if he returns, we are not to admit him?” Uppleby asked, his tone decidedly lacking the proper respect.

  Dangerous strangers she might not know how to deal with, but Lady Clovyle was quite adept at handling insolent servants. Her tone frosty, she said, “If Mr. Rendel should return, you will of course inform me of that fact, and I shall decide if I shall see him again. Is that clear?”

  “Quite clear, m’lady,” Uppleby said.

  “Then you are dismissed.”

  In but a few seconds Lady Clovyle was alone, and she had not the slightest idea how to proceed. “Oh, that wretched girl, wherever can she be? What have I done to deserve such cavalier treatment?”

  She stood there in the hallway, wringing her hands, unsure what her next move should be, and knowing no one she could turn to for advice and assistance, when a voice spoke behind her.