“Oh, dear.” She grabbed onto her husband’s shirt front and tried to hide her face from view. Then she mumbled something Digory could not hear.
“My wife wishes to apologize for her outburst,” Lord Edington said with a chuckle. He bent his head and listened for a minute, then added, “She says to tell you that it is mostly your fault anyway, because if only you had come at a more normal time of day, she would not have jumped to such unwarranted conclusions about you.”
“I accept full blame,” Digory said.
Lady Edington turned toward him and said in a much calmer voice, “You are too much the gentleman, and you must be thinking I am not at all a lady. Please believe me when I say that my husband and I will do whatever we can to help you in any way. Although it must seem that I am a veritable ingrate, I am fully conscious of what I owe to you.”
Better the whole truth now, rather than later, when his deception could only bring disgust. “But you see, I am not, in fact, a gentleman,” Digory said quietly.
Lady Edington looked puzzled.
“He is a smuggler, my dear,” her husband explained. “Or I should say, he was a smuggler. During the war with France, he carried not only kegs of brandy, but also spies and couriers back and forth across the Channel.”
Lady Edington’s eyes lit up again, this time with interest rather than anger. “How delightful. I have always wished to meet a smuggler. You must have many stories to tell about the stratagems you employed to outwit the excise men. I would dearly love to hear them all.”
Digory bowed. “Perhaps another time. Right now I am sure you would much rather I took my leave so that—”
“Nonsense,” Lady Edington interrupted him. “I have no intention of going meekly off to bed until I have heard the full story of why you wish to become a gentleman.”
“But my dear,” her husband said, “the story is quite long, and the hour is rather advanced, and—”
“I know exactly how long the story is,” she said, seating herself on the chair recently vacated by her husband. “In case it has slipped your mind, I was waiting for you the entire time Mr. Rendel was telling you the story. It is hardly fair that I should now be deprived of hearing it just because you were so inconsiderate, so thoughtless, so—”
“I quite understand,” Lord Edington said, sending a mute appeal to Digory. “Perhaps now would be the best time to discuss things after all?”
This visit was not going at all the way Digory had planned, and the knowledge that he was no longer in complete control of events was making him more than a trifle nervous.
But pressed as he was by his host and hostess to stay, there was little he could do except sit down beside Lady Edington. She smiled at him while pointedly ignoring her husband, who pulled up another chair.
“Although I have had no formal training as a spy, nor any practical experience with espionage, you will soon learn that I have a natural talent for intrigue,” she said. “Not even Matthew knows the half of what I have been up to since we were married.”
Lord Edington did not rise to the bait, which only confirmed for Digory his opinion that the viscount was a man of superior intelligence.
By the time the dairymaids were calling out their wares and the housemaids were beginning to scurry about their business of cleaning out grates and laying fresh fires, Bethia was totally exhausted.
The noises of the city had never bothered her before, but this past night, the slightest sound had jerked her awake, her heart pounding in her chest, her ears straining to hear footsteps, her eyes searching the darkness for the shadowy form of another kidnapper.
If she had slept an hour all told, it would be a wonder. Each time she had started to doze off, a board had creaked or the wind had rattled a pane of glass, or someone had driven by in a carriage or cart.
It was not the peacefulness of the countryside that she missed. What she missed—and needed—was Digory’s reassuring presence beside her while she slept. Without him, the night was unbearably long and every familiar object in her room became strange and menacing.
Even knowing Little Davey was close at hand was not sufficient.
In truth, if the wedding ceremony was long delayed, her wicked cousin—whichever one he was—would not have to lift a finger to dispose of her. She would doubtless expire from exhaustion and lack of sleep.
Chapter Nine
After spending only one morning in her room, Bethia decided she was being excessively cautious. Remaining inside her house was merely common sense; restricting herself to her own bedroom was bordering on the irrational. In truth, she was beginning to suspect that if she were to stare for an entire week at the same four walls, no matter how pretty the green silk they were covered with, she would go stark raving mad.
She therefore decided to lunch with her aunt in the breakfast room, rather than having her meal brought up to her room on a tray.
It was too much to expect that she might actually enjoy dining with her aunt.
“Really, Bethia, I cannot understand how you came to hire such a person as footman,” Aunt Euphemia whispered, glancing over her shoulder to where Little Davey stood waiting patiently by the sideboard.
“He is not a footman; he is my bodyguard,” Bethia replied calmly, taking another bite of steak and kidney pie.
“Please do not ever again use that word in my presence,” her aunt said crossly. “It is enough to make me lose my appetite completely. I declare, I do not know if I am coming or going.” She shuddered. “I do wish we could simply forget all these ... these...”
Bethia wondered if her aunt was at long last ready to admit that wicked things had been happening—that in fact one of her Harcourt cousins was conspiring to have her murdered.
“... these flights of fancy you have been having. Really, my dear, the more I consider it, the more I think it would be wise to send for Doctor Abernathy. He is bound to have some powder that will make you feel more the thing.”
Bethia rolled her eyes, but Lady Clovyle continued to prattle on in much the same vein while she ate, and despite her claim, Bethia did not notice any diminishing in her aunt’s usually healthy appetite.
Since reasoning with her had failed, Bethia gave up all attempt to persuade her aunt to accept the truth. Instead she thought about Digory, wondering where he was and what he was doing. Was he even now lunching with Lady Letitia?
As if her thoughts had conjured up the spirit of that infamous matchmaker, Uppleby entered the room, bearing a note on a silver salver. Bowing, he presented it to Bethia’s aunt, who quickly broke the seal and unfolded it.
“Oh, my. Oh, my! Oh, my!” she said. “Oh, I cannot believe it. Oh, you will never imagine what has happened! I never thought this day would come, and yet here it is!”
Smiling radiantly, Aunt Euphemia held out the invitation, but before Bethia could take it, her aunt clutched it to her bosom.
“I am sure I cannot hazard a guess,” Bethia said.
“Lady Letitia”—there was reverence in Aunt Euphemia’s voice when she uttered that name—“Lady Letitia has invited me to tea. Think on it, dearest niece, she has invited me. Me! It is beyond my wildest dreams that she has singled me out for such attention.”
A rapturous look in her eyes, she stood up and drifted to the door, still clutching the invitation.
It was easy to tell that she had not yet put two and two together and come up with the conclusion that Digory was behind this invitation, Bethia realized. And when Aunt Euphemia discovered that pertinent fact, she would probably come down to earth with a thud.
Fortunately, that was Lady Letitia’s problem.
With great consternation Lady Clovyle watched Lady Letitia bid a fond farewell to That Wretched Man, even going so far as to turn her cheek up for him to kiss. There had to be some explanation, but it defied Lady Clovyle to find it.
“Just who is Mr. Rendel?” she asked after he had left the room. “I must confess that I am not acquainted with his family.”
S
he was amazed at her own temerity, because one did not, as a general rule, question, contradict, or gainsay Lady Letitia, unless, of course, one had no desire to come within a hundred miles of London for the next twenty odd years or so.
Fortunately, Lady Letitia did not take offense, but instead immediately launched herself into a recital of Mr. Rendel’s ancestry.
Lady Clovyle did her best to follow the convoluted lineage, although not a single name was familiar to her. Then Lady Letitia said, “And he, as I am sure you know, was killed in the Battle of Hastings—”
Lady Clovyle’s blood ran cold. She was no historian, but even she knew that the Norman invasion of England had occurred in 1066. Surely her hostess did not intend to recite 750 years of begats?
Apparently she did.
“—and his son Robert married Maria, daughter to Sir Geoffrey Tylle, who was married to Margaret, daughter to Roland of Sanslevieux. Sir Geoffrey’s mother, of course, was Anne, sister of Sir Ethelred Arnold the Younger, and not his daughter as some people have claimed. Sir Ethelred did have a daughter Anne, but she is the Anne who married Guy de Fontainelle, and she unfortunately died in childbirth and the child with her. Anne’s mother—that is, of course, the Anne we are interested in, who was the mother of Sir Geoffrey—”
If the truth were told, Lady Clovyle was not interested in that Anne or any other Anne, and she sorely regretted having asked Lady Letitia about Mr. Rendel’s family.
“—was Gertrude of Saxony, and her father’s name is uncertain, although I am inclined to think that she was descended from the lesser branch of that family, not the major one. That would explain why her shield is quartered with three lions gules rather than two griffins verts.”
Lady Clovyle’s mind began to wander, and at some point when she was not paying strict attention, Lady Letitia slid over from Norman nobility into a long recital of Welsh kings. Lady Clovyle was not sure just how they were connected to Gertrude of Saxony—in fact, she had long since given up trying to sort everyone out.
“—Madog ap Gruffydd Maelor ap Madog ap Gryffudd ap Maredudd ap Bleddyn ap Cynfyn ap Gwerstan ap Gwaethfoed ap Gwrhydr ap Bleddyn ap Caradawg ap Lies Law Deawg ap Ednyfed ap Gwynnau ap Gwynnawg Farfsych ap—” Lady Letitia’s voice droned on and on.
Lady Letitia reached over and removed the teacup from her guest’s slack hand. Then she smiled in satisfaction. One could always count on dear Lady Clovyle’s dropping off to sleep in her box at the theater or during the Sunday services at St. George’s in Hanover Square.
Rising silently from her chair, Lady Letitia tiptoed across the room and rang for Owens, who had provided her with the book from which she had obtained the long and monotonous Welsh genealogies. He had also coached her on the proper pronunciation of the Welsh names, although it is doubtful that Lady Clovyle would have noticed anything amiss even if Lady Letitia had invented some wholly fictitious names.
In any event, it was now time for the second act to commence.
Startled out of her sleep, Lady Clovyle sat up and gazed around her in bewilderment that rapidly turned to horror. She had dozed off while Lady Letitia was speaking—her life was ruined, absolutely ruined! She would never again be able to show her face in London!
But Lady Letitia did not appear to have noticed the social solecism her guest had committed.
“And that is his father’s side, so I am sure you will understand why I call him cousin. Now on his mother’s side—”
Lady Clovyle gave a mental groan. Surely she had been tortured enough? Why had no one ever warned her not to bring up the subject of ancestors and lineages when Lady Letitia was present?
The door opened, and Lady Letitia paused in her recital. “Yes, Owens, what is it?”
Her butler replied, “Lady Edington has come to call. Do you wish to see her or shall I deny her?”
Lady Letitia frowned. “Dear me, this is unfortunate. I have not seen her for an age, but on the other hand, Lady Clovyle and I have been having such a pleasant coze.” Turning to Lady Clovyle she said, “Would you mind dreadfully if I postponed telling you about my cousin’s mother’s family until another time?”
“No, no, not at all,” Lady Clovyle hastened to assure her.
“You must be sure and remind me the next time we are together,” Lady Letitia said.
When pigs fly, Lady Clovyle said to herself. Then she was shocked at the vulgarity of her own thoughts.
“Lady Letitia, the most delicious bit of gossip—I had to be the first to tell you.” Acting as if she did not even notice that Lady Letitia had another guest, Adeline crossed to where her coconspirator was sitting and kissed her on the cheek. Then she sat down in her appointed chair, which had been cleverly placed so that she had her back to Lady Clovyle.
I should have been born to the stage, she thought to herself. This is vastly entertaining, and I am clearly blessed with hitherto unsuspected thespian talent.
Without giving her hostess or their audience of one enough time to speak, she launched herself into her monologue, which Lady Letitia had written and which she herself had finished memorizing a bare half hour ago.
“You will not credit it when you hear who I saw climbing into a coach at the Red Stag in Staines. Surely, I thought when I saw him, that cannot be Lady Letitia’s cousin, Mr. Rendel, but I could not doubt the evidence of my eyes, for I find him quite the handsomest of men. It was indeed he, and you must have a word with him. He is being quite a naughty boy, you know, because his fair companion was no cyprian. Imagine my surprise when I beheld her to be none other than the rich Miss Pepperell. Really, as well-heeled as he is, I would not have thought he would need to seduce an heiress.”
There was a gasp behind her, and Adeline turned, as if only then becoming aware of the third person in the room.
“I am not sure you two have met,” Lady Letitia said. “My dear Lady Clovyle, may I present Lady Edington?”
“Not the aunt?” Adeline said, clasping her hands to her cheeks in a bit of impromptu acting that was so overdone, she was surprised that Lady Clovyle did not immediately tumble to the truth.
Lady Letitia nodded. “Just so.”
Affecting a look of deep chagrin, Adeline said, “Oh, dear, I do believe I have put my foot in it now.”
Conflicting emotions ran across Lady Clovyle’s face, and Adeline felt the urge to prompt the older lady, who seemed to have forgotten her lines.
“You have completely misunderstood the matter,” Lady Clovyle finally said. “Mr. Rendel and my niece have long been betrothed, only ... only...”
“Only they did not wish to make it public because of a recent death in my dear cousin’s family,” Lady Letitia said smoothly. “They are being married here at my house tomorrow, and I must ask you not to tell a soul, for we wish to keep the ceremony private, since dear Digory is technically still in mourning.”
Enjoyable as it might be to playact, Adeline had to admit that Lady Letitia’s skill as an actress far surpassed hers. Listening to her talk, Adeline almost felt that they should be speaking in hushed voices out of respect for the dear departed.
“I shall not say a word to anyone,” Adeline promised. “But only on the condition that we are invited to the ceremony. Matthew would be devastated if he were not able to stand witness to Mr. Rendel, who is one of his oldest and dearest friends.” Turning to face Lady Clovyle, she begged, “Do say we may join you tomorrow in celebrating this happy occasion.”
Still looking a little pale, Lady Clovyle hastened to say, “Of course you and your husband are welcome to come.” Adeline smiled. Lady Letitia smiled. Lady Clovyle, on the other hand, looked as if she had been handed an invitation to her own execution.
Bethia was sitting by her window, watching the sky change from blue to purple and wondering, as she had been doing the entire day, where Digory was and what he was doing. Her musings were interrupted by a light tap on the door.
“Come in,” she called out, although in truth she was not in the mood for company.
<
br /> Aunt Euphemia entered, looking girlishly coy. “There is a gentleman come to see you,” she said.
“Tell him I am not at home,” Bethia said, turning to stare once more at the darkening sky.
“It is your Mr. Rendel who is below in the library,” her aunt continued as if Bethia had not spoken, “and he has asked for and I have given him my permission to address you.”
Bethia could not believe what she was hearing—indeed, it was too wonderful to be true. How could Digory, in only a day and a half, have effected such a change in her aunt’s attitude toward him?
But the evidence was right before her eyes. Aunt Euphemia was smiling and looking as pleased as if she herself had arranged the match.
“You will, of course, not wish to keep him waiting, but I do think he will not mind if you delay long enough to change your gown. Perhaps your new pomona green morning dress might be appropriate. Or do you prefer the jonquil silk with the gold embroidery?”
But Bethia was already hurrying out of the room and down the stairs. Digory had come back—he was here!
She paused in the doorway of the library, feeling unaccountably shy, but then he turned toward her and smiled, and she ran forward and threw herself into his arms.
“Oh, you cannot know how much I have missed you,” she said, hugging him as tightly as she could and laughing out of sheer joy.
Holding her in his arms, feeling her warmth through the thin layers of clothing that separated them, Digory had a grim foretaste of the hell he was letting himself in for.
How had he ever thought that he could marry her and then not be a proper husband to her? Her curves fit against him as if God himself had created the two of them specifically for each other.
Before he could set her aside—and his arms blatantly disobeyed his command to release her—she pulled his head down and kissed him full on his lips.
This is not supposed to be happening, he thought before all logic fled his brain, to be replaced by passion.
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