Lysander's Lady

by Patricia Ormsby

  ‘No.’ Miss Honeywell took a deep breath and plunged resolutely on. ‘She stepped into another carriage and drove away.’

  ‘Where should she drive to at such an hour? Come, Miss Honeywell, can you not do better than that?’

  His air of contempt goaded her into swift retort. ‘Her destination I do not know, but she was not alone on her journey.’

  There was a brief, poignant silence, then he stepped forward and gripped her by the shoulders. ‘What are you saying? By God, I’ll have the truth if I have to shake it out of you!’

  ‘She has eloped with my cousin Bredon!’ she blurted out miserably, and hung her head so that she might not witness his mortification.

  The fierce grip on her shoulders relaxed but his hands remained, holding her lightly. ‘And you gave them aid?’

  ‘Well, someone had to!’ She tried to maintain an attitude of careless defiance but only succeeded in sounding apologetic.

  ‘You poor child!’ The warm sympathy in his voice quite confounded her. Reproaches, anger, even a further assault upon her person she could have understood, but this unlooked-for forbearance got under her guard and she felt the hot tears well up into her eyes. ‘I could kill Bredon for this!’

  His quick gust of anger was almost reassuring. At least it was what might be expected of a suitor who was like to be the laughing-stock of the beau monde when the story got about of how his intended bride had been spirited away from under his nose in his own house!

  ‘You must not judge them too harshly,’ she pleaded, without much hope of lessening his resentment. ‘They were obliged to act in this—this unbecoming way because Sophia feared to be forced into marriage—oh!’

  ‘With me,’ he concluded for her. ‘In which case, of course, the fault is entirely mine! God, how Wayleigh will laugh!’

  She considered his lordship. ‘I do not think he will,’ she said at length. ‘His sister was a useful bargaining point, was she not?’

  This argument met with scant attention. The lowering reflection that his advances had been repugnant to Sophia, that she had led him on while planning to make a fool of him, was, to a man of Lysander’s pride, wholly intolerable. Added to that was his conviction that Bredon had turned the unfortunate Miss Honeywell’s undoubted tendre for him to his own advantage.

  The unfortunate Miss Honeywell thought she had never seen anyone look so magnificently angry as did Mr. Derwent at that moment, and longed to comfort him. This laudable ambition was thwarted by the sound of a footstep outside the barn.

  ‘Are you still there, boy? Have you anything to eat?’

  ‘It is the gentleman who owns this place,’ she whispered urgently. ‘He is blind and believes me to be a stable lad conveying his master’s carriage to Brighton.’

  ‘Then he must continue in that belief.’ Mr. Derwent accepted the situation without question. ‘Why were you alone?’

  ‘Because your groom was foxed, there was no one else.’

  He almost smiled. ‘Near enough true! Leave this to me.’ Miss Honeywell was perfectly content to leave it to him and, while he went out of the barn, found her hat and pushed her tumbled locks back into its confines.

  ‘I must thank you, sir, for having housed my lad and my equipage. I had hoped to come up with him in Horley last night and awaited him there. When he did not, I sought him along the road this morning, fearing an accident or worse, and so discovered him here.’

  ‘Yes, you must have been very concerned.’ The oldgentleman was leaning on his stick, head on one side, as if using his ears for eyes. ‘And you, boy, did you sleep soundly?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir, I am much indebted to you for your kindness.’ Directly she had spoken she clapped a hand to her mouth in dismay for, in her agitation, she had quite forgotten to assume the accent and address of a stable lad.

  The old gentleman chuckled. ‘Now, let me be clear upon one thing,’ he said mildly. ‘Am I assisting at an elopement or an abduction?’

  ‘Neither!’ burst out simultaneously from the lady and gentleman.

  ‘I confess I had my suspicions last night,’ went on their host. ‘There cannot be many stable lads who use Hungary Water and a touch of some other perfume with which I am not familiar. Being deprived of my sight has sharpened my other senses, you understand.’

  Mr. Derwent shot a warning glance at Miss Honeywell. ‘I must beg you to believe me, sir, when I assure you that things are not at all as they might seem. No blame attaches to the lady other than that of—of wishing to provoke me.’

  ‘In which object she appears to have succeeded admirably!’ The old gentleman was still chuckling.

  ‘My name is Derwent, sir, and I must apologise for having embroiled you in my affairs.’ Thus Lysander, very stiffly on his stiffs.

  ‘Derwent? I fancy you’ll be Harry Glendower’s younger son. I knew your father, a sure card but a good-natured man enough.’

  ‘He was a great gun, sir!’ Mr. Derwent was quick in defence of his parent. ‘I was fortunate indeed to have had such a father.’

  The other nodded approvingly. ‘Very properly said. And from the sound of it, you are cut from the same cloth. May I suggest we continue this discussion over breakfast?’ He moved off towards his gig, into which he mounted with astonishing agility. ‘Grant me a few minutes to conclude my morning drive and to warn my housekeeper to set two more covers—we live very retired down here. I am Fontevin, by the way.’ With that, he touched up his leggy gelding and trotted off.

  Miss Honeywell was so lost in admiration of the old gentleman’s ability to deal for himself that she failed to observe her companion’s stupefaction.

  ‘Fontevin!’ he breathed. ‘I had believed him dead these ten years!’

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked, the tenseness of his attitude warning her that something was amiss.

  ‘Lord Fontevin had but one daughter,’ he said very deliberately. ‘She married the Duke of Edmonton.’

  ‘Wh-what? You mean he is grandfather to Lady Sophia and Wayleigh?’ She looked about her wildly. ‘We must leave here at once!’

  He raised a hand to check her flight. ‘No. Perhaps this has fallen out better than we could have hoped.’

  ‘How can you say so?’ she cried. ‘Are you going to inform that nice old gentleman that his granddaughter has eloped with a presumed murderer? Because I could not!’

  ‘That nice old gentleman was, I believe, something of a rake in his younger days, though never such a one as Wayleigh.’ He appeared to be thinking aloud. ‘I had in mind to tell him that you, in a fit of pique, had taken off with my curricle and pair because I had refused to allow you to handle ‘em. But now, I think, the whole story must out. Depend upon it, he’s bound to know of it sooner or later, and it’s best from me, rather than some havey-cavey tale from Wayleigh. Don’t worry,’ he added on a kindlier note, ‘I promise you’ll not suffer by any of this. I’ll explain that you were quite deceived by Sophia’s devious plans.’

  Miss Honeywell was less perturbed about her reputation than her appearance. ‘I cannot join you for breakfast looking like this!’ she expostulated, an eloquent gesture indicating her crumpled robe and tangled curls.

  He looked her up and down until she felt like screaming. ‘No, it won’t do for you to appear as if you have slept in a hay-loft,’ he agreed.

  ‘As that is precisely what I have done, how do you suggest I remedy the fault?’ she snapped.

  He raised his quizzing-glass to inspect her more closely.

  ‘First, I think, a comb.’ Miss Honeywell plunged into the depths of her reticule and produced one of these indispensable articles with something of a flourish. ‘Ah, that’s more the thing. Turn round, if you please.’ Obediently she allowed him smooth out her disordered locks. When he had finished, he stood back to look after her. ‘Hmm. Have you a bonnet?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘but only this ribbon.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember.’

  Deftly he swept her long curls over her shou
lder and twined the ribbon through them as skilfully as any lady’s maid. The touch of his fingers on her hair and the proximity of his person combined together to convey such an impression of intimacy that the blood rushed to her cheeks, and her heart began to beat in the most violent fashion.

  He, too, seemed momentarily confused, and when he spoke again she could not immediately comprehend his meaning.

  ‘It is so much worse for you! My affections were not engaged—but rest assured that no one will ever know of it through any word of mine. As for last night, you spent it under Fontevin’s roof. Not the most spiteful of tabbies could censure you for that.’

  ‘But I didn’t!’ she objected. He gave her hair an admonishing tug.

  ‘Who is to know what roof it was? Again, you-may rely upon my discretion and I am persuaded his lordship is too much the gentleman to say otherwise, however displeased he may be when he learns of your part in his granddaughter’s elopement. Come, smile a little! Life, I promise you, is not at quite an end. In your case, I can assure you there are better fish in the sea than ever came out of it, though you’ll not care for that now.’

  It was then Miss Honeywell began to understand that Mr. Derwent believed her to be cherishing a hopeless passion for Bredon, and credited her with none but the most pure and noble motives in helping the lovers escape. When she recalled how she had gloried in the prospect of giving him a good set-down she wished herself a thousand miles away. As nothing so unlikely could be hoped for, she submitted to being driven to where the chimneys of a considerable mansion could be seen at some distance amongst the trees.

  ‘I suppose we had better do the thing in style and arrive at the front entrance,’ remarked Mr. Derwent, turning off the rough farm track on to a wide drive. ‘I do hope that Augustus has not been too put out by my making off with his phaeton.’ She was grateful to him for trying to smooth over the awkward moment and endeavoured to respond in like manner, but the words stuck in her throat. Then they rounded the curve of the drive and she forgot her embarrassment as the full magnificence of Fontevin Court was displayed before them.

  A central block of Palladian proportions, with two flanking wings, was set amid superbly landscaped lawns and gardens that portrayed the hand of a master. As they came to a stand before the colonnaded portico, the double doors opened and a couple of footmen, with wigs already powdered and in full livery despite the early hour, hurried to let down the steps and assist the lady to descend while a groom stood ready to lead the carriage away.

  ‘Living retired maybe,’ murmured Mr. Derwent into Miss Honeywell’s ear, ‘but in some style!’

  This comment was amply borne out when they were ushered into a spacious entrance hall from which rose a great sweeping staircase. Here an impressive butler came to relieve them of their outer garments and pass them to his underlings. ‘Madam, doubtless, would wish to refresh herself?’

  Miss Honeywell, whose previous experience of England’s stately homes was limited to the Gothic magnificence of Mount Trennick and the more homely graciousness of Mansell, was suitably overawed by the elegance and good taste apparent on every hand and meekly followed a trim maidservant upstairs to a delightful bedchamber, decorated in the French style. Here she was introduced to a buffet of finely-veined marble, discreetly hidden in a closet and served by piped hot water, while numerous bottles of scented waters and other items thought to be necessary to a gentlewoman’s toilet were set out for her convenience.

  This being such a very feminine chamber and his lordship an elderly widower, Miss Honeywell ventured to enquire for whom the room was kept ready.

  ‘For Lady Sophia, miss, his lordship’s granddaughter. She often spends a se’ennight or more here. Very attached to her, his lordship is. We was expecting her any day, but I understand she won’t be coming after all.’

  ‘Do—do either of his lordship’s grandsons attend him here?’

  ‘We see Lord Francis from time to time, but seldom my Lord Wayleigh.’

  From the maid’s prim expression it was plain she considered this latter circumstance to be worthy of congratulation. Miss Honeywell, reminding herself that to be gossiping with the servants was in the worst of bad taste, asked no more questions but allowed herself to be conducted downstairs to the breakfast parlour where Mr. Derwent and his lordship awaited her.

  This room was as quietly sumptuous as every other in the house, and the table set out in the most lavish way. Both his lordship’s guests found themselves to be remarkably sharp-set, and made deep inroads on the river trout broiled with parsley butter, the ragout of eggs and bacon, the devilled kidneys and, in Mr. Derwent’s case, a tight little beefsteak done to a succulent pinkness, all supplemented by crusty rolls warm from the kitchen ovens and coffee poured from a handsome silver biggin by the attentive butler.

  During the meal Lord Fontevin, who contented himself with a little fish and some fruit, maintained an easy flow of conversation as if the addition of two utter strangers to his breakfast table was an everyday occurrence.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said in reply to a question from Miss Honeywell, ‘when I saw what my friend Dashwood had achieved at West Wycombe—I had not lost my sight at that time—I called upon Mr. Repton to improve the landscaping of the grounds here. I cannot boast of a swan-shaped lake or a music temple, but there is a very tolerable cascade and a grotto.’ He sighed wistfully. ‘It was nothing before Repton took it in hand. Sad it is to think that great artist is no more. If you care for it, I should be pleased to show you the Red Book he prepared for me, outlining his improvements here. Thank you, Maxwell, you may leave us now.’

  The butler bowed and withdrew and his lordship pushed his chair back a little from the table.

  ‘Now, Mr. Derwent, let me say that I have received a missive from my granddaughter in which she speaks of you. It would appear that you have made her an offer.’ He paused, the great emerald on his fine-boned hand glinting in the sunlight as he toyed with his silver fruit-knife. ‘Let me have your story, if you would be so kind.’

  Despite the courteously worded request, there was an underlying note of authority in the soft voice. Mr. Derwent gave him all the facts with commendable celerity, once only having to refer to Miss Honeywell for corroboration.

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Lord Fontevin, having heard him out in absolute silence, ‘that I owe you both an apology for my granddaughter’s lack of conduct.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ cried Kate, ever impulsive. ‘You must not blame her—nor Bredon either. They—they are so devoted to each other.’

  The old gentleman raised a satirical eyebrow, and for an instant she was put in mind of Wayleigh. His next remark made her wonder if he had read her thoughts.

  ‘Sophia also made mention of a curricle race which, for some reason which I could not fully comprehend, prohibited her from visiting me.’ Mr. Derwent explained about that too, and his lordship shook his head reproachfully. ‘My dear boy, you have incurred a deal of trouble, have you not? And all, it would appear, of my family’s making.’

  ‘My most immediate concern, my lord, is on Miss Honeywell’s behalf.’ Mr. Derwent shot a warning glance at the lady as he spoke. ‘I would wish no breath of scandal to attach to her name in all this distasteful business.’

  ‘Quite!’ There was the hint of a smile about his lordship’s mouth. ‘Who did you say were among your mother’s guests last night? Mrs. George Lamb and Mrs. Endersby? Hmm. Well, the solution is simple. Sophia directed you, Miss Honeywell, to lead Mr. Derwent—er, astray, and suggested that you made for this house where you could be certain of a welcome. She gave you a letter, of course, explaining the matter to me, and you stayed the night here.’

  Mr. Derwent heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘It won’t stop the tittle-tattle, but nothing worse than ill-advised loyalty to your cousin can be put down to your discredit, young lady. Now for you, sir. Do you expect my grandson to run an honest race?’

  Mr. Derwent was so taken aback
by the bluntness of the question that he hardly knew how to answer. His host solved the problem for him by continuing in the same unemotional way, ‘You’d be a fool if you did, there is too much money involved. Wayleigh cannot afford to lose and now his supposed hold over you—Sophia—has slipped the leash. Does he know of her going off with Bredon?’

  ‘Not, I collect, as yet,’ said Mr. Derwent. ‘But he must suspect that something smoky is afoot, else she would have returned by now.’

  ‘Remember that I have known Wayleigh for all of his thirty years,’ said the Marquis’s grandparent grimly. ‘He’ll chouse you if he can. What are your chances of winning?’

  ‘Certainly as good as his,’ said Mr. Derwent modestly. ‘Then you’d best look to your safety. Where are your cattle?’

  ‘On their way to London, I hope, being guarded by a couple of Jackson’s fellows.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve got John Jackson with you? That was a wise precaution. ‘Pon m’word, I am tempted to go up to Newmarket myself and see the finish of it! At what time do you race?’

  ‘At two o’clock tomorrow.’ Mr. Derwent regarded his host with concern. ‘It’s the devil of a journey for you, sir.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks! I’ve a well-sprung chaise and an excellent coachman. I’ll lodge for the night at Berkeley Square with Edmonton—if they’re all away for the race by then it makes no matter. Well, you’ll not be wishing to waste any more time.’

  ‘No, the sooner I can restore Miss Honeywell to my mother’s care, the better. I’ll take her up in my curricle but there is my friend’s phaeton to be returned also.’

  ‘I can drive that—I did so yesterday in Richmond Park.’ Kate broke in eagerly.

  ‘You will not drive anything on the Brighton Road in broad daylight.’ Mr. Derwent spoke with unmistakable menace. ‘I fancy you can have no notion of how fortunate you were to escape molestation last night—and how we are to smooth over that escapade I am at a loss to imagine.’

  She flared up at once. ‘Since my character is beyond redemption, I fail to see how a further indiscretion can signify! In any case, you are not my keeper!’