The Viscount s Betrothal

by Louise Allen

  Henry was at home when Decima returned and she caught him alone to tell him about her morning. He nodded gravely as she recounted her uncomfortable visit to the Carmichaels.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve made peace again. Does Charlton insist upon you going to stay with him and Lady Carmichael?’

  ‘He tried to.’ Decima pulled off her gloves and went to curl up on the sofa next to Henry’s writing desk. He seemed to be working his way through an alarming stack of correspondence, much of which looked like modistes’ bills to Decima’s newly experienced eye, and did not seem unhappy at being distracted. Doubtless launching a sister into society was not a cheap exercise.

  ‘I refused, but, of course, if you or Lady Freshford would rather I didn’t stay after yesterday, I will leave, naturally. I know I am refining too much upon going there—I’m sure it will be all right once he realises that I’m independent.’

  ‘No, please stay.’ Henry grinned at her. ‘We would hate to lose you—even Starling has consented to withdraw his resignation. Now, tell me about your encounter with LordWeston.’

  Decima did so, not even omitting the episode in the study cupboard, which made Henry roar with laughter. ‘Oh, lord! Can you imagine Starling bundling me into a cupboard to save me from a compromising situation?’

  Decima had to confess she could not. The image was so ludicrous that she felt she had better stay away from the butler until she could command her face. Then the thought of the rest of her news sobered her.

  ‘That is not all. Adam wishes us to accompany him and Olivia on an expedition to visit an estate at Bushey.’ She explained what Adam had told her, watching Henry’s reaction. ‘I had a stiff wrestle with my conscience,’ she admitted, ‘and I finally gave in, although I have not told him so yet. It will be a treat to reward myself for exercising the utmost discretion ever afterwards. But I was not sure how you would feel—’ She broke off, catching her lower lip between her teeth anxiously. ‘I thought perhaps you might feel the same about Olivia. Or it might be too painful…’ Henry was silent, tapping the edge of a milliner’s bill with one fingernail. ‘Or perhaps you no longer feel…’

  ‘Oh, I feel—I feel just the same about her,’ he admitted eventually. ‘And I expect I will yield to temptation, one last time, just as you intend to. Do you remember we discussed how one knew if one was in love? Ironic, is it not? I wish I had stayed ignorant.’

  The bitterness that was suddenly in his voice stung and Decima winced. How could people find sport and entertainment in match-making? For every happy union they brought about, how many broken hearts were there? Still, Pru and Bates would be all right, of that she was certain.

  Adam’s promised note arrived later that afternoon, suggesting an expedition in two days’ time, providing the good weather held. There was a separate note for Henry, who read it with raised brows.

  ‘What is it?’ Decima asked, watching his thoughtful face.

  ‘Weston urges me to accompany you as he has some concerns after recent reports of footpads in the area. He says he has no real fears, but would feel happier about going if there was another gentleman to take care of the ladies, as opposed to grooms.’

  ‘Do you think it dangerous?’ Decima queried.

  ‘No.’ Henry shook his head. ‘There have been reports, but only occasional ones, and not of any attempts upon parties. Single riders, or people alone in a gig might perhaps be at risk, but two gentlemen will be quite sufficient, even if Weston does not intend to take a groom as well. I will put my carriage pistols in the curricle.’

  ‘You intend to come with us, then?’

  Henry smiled wryly. ‘I do not believe there is any danger, but I could not let either you or Olivia go without my escort. Irrational, is it not?’

  The morning of the expedition dawned fair with a clear sky and the promise of sunshine. Decima resisted, with a pang, Pru’s efforts to persuade her to wear her newest, and very dashing, walking dress, and settled instead for a more modest outfit in moss green with a braided hem and a darker green pelisse and veiled bonnet. She was not going to try and compete with Olivia, as if that were possible. Today she was an onlooker, there to give Olivia feminine company—and to bid farewell to her heart.

  Henry seemed in much the same, subdued mood. As Dalrymple showed them into the salon where Olivia and Adam were waiting, Decima saw how his eyes locked with Olivia’s and held for a few betraying moments. Then Olivia was her usual sweet, shy self, eyes downcast except for rapid, flickering glances at Adam.

  Had he noticed anything? He was discussing the route with Henry perfectly amicably. Decima puzzled how, when he seemed so observant over everything else, he seemed unconscious of the attraction between his fiancée and Henry. Perhaps it was simply that because his affections were not deeply engaged it made him less sensitive to her. Poor Olivia. For perhaps the first time in her life Decima wondered if remaining single was not an enviable thing.

  ‘Daydreaming, Miss Ross?’ Adam enquired. Decima realised the others were all on their feet and making ready to go. She forced a smile and shook her head, ‘No, just thinking about tomorrow.’ And all the days after that. ‘Do you think this fine weather will last?’

  Bates and another groom were holding the heads of the horses at the front door. He exchanged nods with Adam, then, when he saw she was looking at him, he knuckled his forehead. ‘Morning, Miss Ross, ma’am.’

  ‘Good morning, Bates.’ She wondered whether she should show her disapproval for the scheming he and Pru had been up to, then smiled. ‘Are you coming with us?’

  ‘No, ma’am. My leg’s still playing up too much for a long ride.’

  They set off, Adam’s carriage in the lead. Both men had chosen to bring ordinary curricles and Decima could only be grateful. Being tooled around Hyde Park by Henry in his high-perch version was all very well on well-rolled tan surfaces and for short distances, but she did not relish the thought of it swaying over country roads, with the passengers sitting several feet off the ground.

  She found she was watching Adam’s back as he negotiated the traffic, handling the team lightly through the confusion of carriages and carts. But even he seemed taken by surprise as a rapidly moving shape slid soundlessly out of Upper Brook Street. His team sidled and shied, then he had them under control again and the strange vehicle had passed.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ Decima craned to see it, but it had vanished.

  ‘A pedestrian hobbyhorse, I believe.’ Henry settled his own horses as they took exception to a coal heaver’s cart. ‘They’re supposed to be the next big thing—I think they should be banned. It’ll be steam engines on the roads next, frightening the horses.’

  ‘It looked fun,’ Decima said wistfully. ‘Not as good as a horse, naturally, but think how convenient for town use—no waiting for it to be saddled up and fetched from the mews.’

  ‘They do say there is a ladies’ version with three wheels.’ Henry checked his team, then followed Adam’s lead into Edgware Road. ‘But how one could ride one of those things side saddle and still propel it defeats me.’

  They bickered amicably over the merits of new inventions, Decima teased Henry about investing in steam engines and then condemning them if they might inconvenience him, and they looked with interest at the route of the new Regent’s Canal as they crossed it just before Maida Vale.

  Henry gave his team their head as they came to Shoot Up Hill and drew alongside the other curricle as the hamlet of Crickle-wood hove into view. Adam looked over and grinned. ‘Do you want to race? First past the Dog and Duck in the High Street?’

  Decima’s eyes sparkled and she took a firm grip on the side rails, but a squeak of alarm from Olivia was greeted by a firm refusal by Henry. ‘I think not, Weston—it would alarm the ladies.’

  ‘No, it would not,’ Decima said crossly as they dropped back to follow once more. ‘Not that you would win, Henry,’ she added to take her revenge. ‘That is a particularly fine team Adam’s driving.’

 
‘Not bad,’ Henry admitted grudgingly. ‘But mine has the better bone.’

  That minor squabble lasted all the way until they crossed the River Brent, by which time Henry was maintaining that he was blowed if he was going to advise Decima on the purchase of horses in the future if she had so little faith in his judgement.

  Decima finally gave in with a laugh. ‘Henry, we sound like brother and sister, arguing like this! I yield absolutely—Adam’s team will break down with splints and spavins at any moment and I bow unreservedly to you in the selection of a pair for my phaeton.’

  ‘What phaeton?’ he enquired suspiciously.

  ‘The one you are going to assist me in purchasing next week,’ she responded. ‘I intend to cut a dash in the parks.’

  ‘Your brother will have kittens,’ Henry observed. ‘And I will figure large in his conversation as the man who led you astray. Not a high-perch, I devoutly hope?’

  ‘Not until I have mastered the ordinary type,’ Decima promised. ‘Then I will take Charlton for a drive. Now what?’ Adam had come to a halt and she could not help noticing Henry feeling under his seat as he reined in, as though to reassure himself something was there. His pistols, no doubt.

  But it was only a large wain being backed across the road by two heavy horses with an alert-looking lad at their heads. Adam drew abreast as the heavy wagon straightened up and Decima saw the lad pointing up ahead, then tugging his lank forelock as Adam sent a coin spinning in his direction. He caught it neatly and grinned as the two carriages bowled past.

  ‘Where are we?’ Decima queried, looking round at the gently rolling countryside. ‘I do not think I have ever been so far north on this road.’

  ‘Hendon’s over there…’ Henry gestured with his whip to their right ‘…but I don’t know what this hamlet is. Looks as though Weston’s found us an inn, though.’

  Decima, who had been beginning to think that she had drunk too many cups of tea at breakfast for comfort on a long drive, greeted that news with some enthusiasm. It proved to be a substantial, ancient place, rambling with lean-to extensions under a thatched roof.

  Decima’s discreet questioning of the landlady produced directions to an airy privy at the bottom of the garden, neatly placed between the chicken run and the woodpile. Olivia came with her, blushing frantically at the thought that anyone might guess where they were going.

  ‘Thank you for asking,’ she whispered. ‘I would never have liked to do so. I feel so conspicuous. Mama says a lady should simply not drink before setting out, but I became so thirsty.’

  Decima chuckled. ‘It is why so many privies are next to the woodpile. Then the maids can pretend that is all they’ve come out for and it means they always come back in with an armful of wood. That or they feed the chickens.’

  Olivia smiled. ‘What a good idea! I do wish I was as brave and as practical as you are, Decima. I know I must disappoint Lord Weston—he admires your spirit so much.’

  ‘He does?’ But Olivia had slipped into the privy, pulling the wooden door with its cut-out half-moons shut behind her, and Decima was left addressing a small flock of brown bantams who eyed her hopefully for kitchen scraps.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  B ack in the parlour that the men had bespoken, Adam was slouched at one end of an ancient settle and Henry was leaning against it. They were drinking ale with the air of men who could companionably sup their drinks for hours on end without any need to do more than grunt at each other occasionally.

  Decima felt her lips twitch as they straightened up and stood, then Adam slid back into his corner, long legs stretched out, and Henry passed cups of tea to her and Olivia.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ Adam asked with a lazy lift of one brow.

  Decima eyed the dark brown tea with some misgivings as she took the seat next to him. ‘You and Henry. Men seem capable of sitting together for hours on end, communicating in grunts. Women talk.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. Chatter.’

  ‘Communication,’ Decima said firmly. ‘It makes society go round.’ She checked that Olivia was on the other side of the room talking to Henry and lowered her voice. ‘Please do not suggest we race again, not with Olivia here. She is very nervous.’

  ‘But you would like to race?’ Adam appeared to ignore her reproof, his eyes fixed on the foam on top of his tankard.

  ‘Well, yes. But then I like speed, she does not.’

  ‘You do, I have noticed.’ He looked up, his eyes green with sparking amusement. ‘Ice skating, riding, sledging…’

  ‘Yes, all of those things.’ Decima found she had to look away and began to study a blackened print on the wall with apparent interest.

  ‘And you don’t run away from danger, either.’ His voice was soft velvet with a reminiscent tone that sent the colour hot into her cheeks. It was not the dangers of speed to which he was referring.

  ‘Charlton would tell you that is because I am a hoyden and have no conduct.’

  ‘But that is new, is it not?’ Adam asked, drawing swirling patterns in the spilt ale on the tabletop with one elegant finger. ‘You used to be a dutiful young lady who would never step out of line and who always deferred to her relatives. You told me so.’ He lifted his hand away from the table, leaving a wet pattern of interlocking hearts. As Decima stared at it, it began to shrink and dry.

  ‘And then I came into control of my affairs and with independence comes freedom, I have found. Within bounds, naturally,’ she added in a commendable imitation of Hermione’s tone when lecturing on proper conduct.

  ‘Indeed?’ Adam was teasing again and the tense moment was past.

  ‘Indeed,’ she agreed. ‘I am about to purchase a phaeton and a team and Henry has agreed to assist me with that. He will not approve my trying a pedestrian hobbyhorse, though,’ she added wistfully. ‘He considers that would pass all bounds. There are ladies’ versions, apparently,’ she added when she saw both Adam’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘With three wheels.’

  ‘Then I am with Freshford on that subject—they would be a truly terrifying addition to London traffic. He is a man of sense.’

  Adam glanced across to where Henry was talking to Olivia. Her charming smile was lighting up her face, transforming her from a pretty but passive statuette into a lovely, vivid young woman. ‘Quite beautiful,’ Adam observed dispassionately, as though he was admiring a work of art, and a cold chill ran down Decima’s spine. Was that really all he wanted? A beautiful trophy wife?

  She was still brooding when they resumed their places in the carriages. Adam drew alongside to discuss the route with Henry. ‘We turn off to the left at the crest of Brockley Hill, then follow the lane across Stanmore Common. The house is shortly before Bushey Heath.’

  With an effort Decima pulled herself together and tried to take an intelligent interest in the purpose of the expedition. ‘It is very pleasant around here,’ she observed, looking around them as Henry followed Adam’s curricle off the main turnpike. She was immediately grateful the men had not chosen to drive high-perch vehicles, as they lurched from one pothole to another. ‘But somewhat isolated. If it were me,’ she decided, ‘I would not think it ideal. It is too far from London to make it easy to drive in and back in the day—not if one wishes to shop or attend a function, that is. But the house may be lovely and make up for that.’

  They were crossing an expanse of common land now, with furze bushes and spindly trees in clumps amidst the brown of last year’s bracken. Adam turned in his seat and gestured towards some chimney pots that could just be seen rising above a copse fringing the edge of the open land. ‘That is the house.’

  As he spoke, two riders swung out of the nearest clump of furze and spurred towards them. Their purpose was unmistakable, even without the masks pulled up over their lower faces and the heavy horse pistols in their hands.

  Decima heard Olivia’s scream, then Adam was turning the curricle, only to be headed off by one of the riders. With the frantic girl clinging to his arm, Decima could s
ee he was having difficulty controlling his team.

  ‘Damn it.’ Henry was juggling whip and reins. He thrust them into Decima’s hands and reached under his seat, coming up with a pistol in his hand, but the curricle in front cut off a clear shot at the riders and Decima could see he was unable to fire without risking hitting either Adam or Olivia.

  Then Adam dropped his whip, thrust Olivia ruthlessly to the floor of the curricle and reached down. Like Henry, he too was carrying pistols under the seat. Despite the plunging team, he stood and took aim. The gun cracked and one of the riders clapped a hand to his shoulder, then his companion fired, wheeling his horse in at close range before Adam could use his other pistol.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Decima fought with the reins as the team tried to back away from the noise and confusion and Henry managed to drag the other gun from its fixings. For a moment she could not see what had happened. The scene before her seemed as before the shot was fired, then Adam bent, clutched at his thigh and toppled out of the curricle to the ground.

  The unwounded rider swung round, threatening them with his weapon. Henry threw himself across Decima, shielding her body as he tried to find a steady bead on the man.

  ‘Adam!’ Decima tried to push Henry away and steady the horses before they bolted, but the riders closed in on the driverless curricle, one on each side. One man bent and seized the rein and then they were away, cantering across the uneven ground, bearing Olivia away from where Adam’s still body sprawled on the turf.

  Decima regained control and drove the few yards to reach his side. She thrust the reins into Henry’s hands and jumped down, stumbling in her long skirts. He was dead, he had to be dead, he lay so still on his back, his right thigh a mass of blood from where the bullet had torn through his buckskins.

  As she reached his side Adam groaned and raised himself on one elbow. ‘Olivia?’

  ‘They’ve taken the curricle.’ Decima fell to her knees beside him. Thank goodness, the bullet did not appear to have hit an artery, the blood was not spurting. She rummaged under her skirts, seized the edge of her petticoat and tore ruthlessly.