Lady Ophelia, looking straight at Seacourt, said, “Susan has done what she thinks best and will live with the consequences, whatever they may be; but understand me, young man, when I say that I believe every word she told us. Bad enough that you treated her roughly, but to force her to accept your mistress into your household, and to be carrying on such a relationship under the innocent eyes of your own child—”
St. Merryn interrupted angrily, “What nonsense are you prattling now, Ophelia? Mistress? What the devil’s his mistress got to do with any of this?”
Daintry said, “She is living in his house with him, Papa—Lady Catherine Chauncey. I told you—”
“And I told you then, as I tell you now, that such things have nothing to do with you. A pretty pass we have come to when females begin cutting up stiff over a man’s private affairs.” He looked at Seacourt with new respect. “Actually got one living in your house with you, you say?”
“My cousin is making an extended visit,” Seacourt said stiffly. “Whatever Susan might think of her, that is all it is.”
“Upon my word,” St. Merryn said, almost reverently, “I don’t know how you manage it, lad. I truly don’t.”
Seacourt turned to Daintry. “You may think you have won, but you are dead wrong. I have every right to take legal action, and I shall. In fact, if I am not much mistaken, taking such action might prove interesting.” Looking at her now as if he expected to catch her off her guard, he said softly, “The nearest magistrate, according to your father, is presently to be found at Deverill Court, and now that I come to think of it, that may even be the likeliest place for Susan to have sought refuge.”
“You are mad, Geoffrey.”
Shocked, St. Merryn said, “Deverill Court! Now, look here, Seacourt, don’t you be saying I told you to lay your dirty laundry at Jervaulx’s feet. I won’t have it! We’ve kept our business well away from him all these years. I won’t have you—”
“You cannot stop me,” he snapped. “I can see that Daintry is none too pleased by this turn of events, so I daresay I may have guessed aright. But in the event that I have not, you will see me here again within the day, all of you, and I shall have the law on my side by then.” And with that, he was gone.
Daintry, her eyes wide, turned to Lady Ophelia. “Is it true that Deverill’s father is the nearest magistrate?”
Lady Ophelia nodded, watching St. Merryn. “Yes, he is. Has been for years, though many people expected him to hand over the duties to someone else once he became a marquess. But does Seacourt expect to find Susan at Deverill Court? He must know his so-called suspicions were utter nonsense.”
“What suspicions?” St. Merryn demanded.
Daintry said calmly, “There were letters accusing Deverill of trifling with Susan, but they were not true, Papa. Susan is not the sort of woman to allow such behavior, nor Deverill the sort of man to attempt it.”
“Well, if you think he wouldn’t attempt it, you haven’t paid heed to what those lads of Hill’s got up to on the Continent, but it don’t matter one way or another. Susan is Seacourt’s problem, and he will soon have her sorted out.”
“Not if I can stop him,” Daintry said. “And what’s more,” she said to Lady Ophelia when St. Merryn had gone, “I would very much like to be present when Geoffrey storms Deverill Court and demands the return of his wife.”
Deverill was sitting at his ease, his feet propped up on the fender before a crackling fire in the book room, reading a book. He had finished his midday meal less than half an hour before, and was enjoying a postprandial glass of wine and a few moments’ leisurely reading before turning his attention to the pile of papers his father had left on the desk. He meant to sort them, and to put away what he could before he returned to his labors in the muniments room, but first he would read for a while.
When a footman opened the book-room door and said, “Sir Geoffrey Seacourt, sir,” he thought for a moment that he must have misheard the man. But, looking up, he observed Seacourt himself, looking as red as bull beef, and primed for a fight.
Deverill put down his book. “Come in, Seacourt. Pour Sir Geoffrey a glass of wine, Thornton.” He smiled at his visitor. “My father’s selection is extremely large. What will you have?”
“I want my wife,” Seacourt said, his eyes gleaming with spite. “If she’s here, Deverill, suppose you trot her out.”
Raising his eyebrows, Deverill said gently, “I believe that means Sir Geoffrey declines refreshment, Thornton. You may go. Fortunately,” he added when the footman had gone, “my father trains his servants well. You need not fear that Thornton will repeat what he heard you say.”
“I don’t give a damn if he does repeat it,” Seacourt snapped. “Where is she?”
“You know,” Deverill said, stretching one leg out to ease a kink in his calf muscle, “I received your absurd letter and was not much impressed by it, but now I see that you are completely unhinged, which may explain a good deal. When, my good fellow, do you suppose I’ve had the time to attach Lady Susan’s interest, let alone to do anything of which I seem to stand accused?”
“How do I know what you have done?”
“Oh, come, come, it is not what I have done that need concern you, but what your wife has done. From what I am given to understand, she rarely leaves Seacourt Head and then only in your company.”
“I was in Brighton for more than two months without her.”
“So you were. I, on the other hand, was in Belgium through those same months—or near enough—and when I returned, I went straight to my father’s house in Gloucestershire before going north for a fortnight. I met your wife for the first time when I stopped at Tuscombe Park on my way back. You came home the next day. Sit down, man, have a glass of wine, and tell me what the devil this is really all about.”
“No, thank you,” Seacourt said stiffly. “I cannot prove that you are lying, but I have no way to know you speak the truth, either. Oh, I know you were at Waterloo; who does not know that? But as to the rest—Waterloo was in June, after all; I came home in late September. In point of fact, however, I came here today looking for Jervaulx. I heard he was here.”
“He returned a few days ago, but he is away again now.”
“I will wait.”
Deverill sighed. “You begin to annoy me, Seacourt. I have purposely remained seated, because if I get up to you, I am likely to lose my temper. You will not wait here. If you did, you would be obliged to wait for some time, because the winter Assizes are in session. His lordship is in Launceston.”
“Thank you,” Seacourt said, adding curtly, “I will seek him there. You need not ring for your man. I can find my way out.”
“No doubt, but I think I shall ring for him all the same,” Deverill said gently, reaching to pull the cord near the mantel.
Flushing, Seacourt strode from the room, nearly colliding with Thornton, who was already responding to the bell.
With the door shut again, Deverill got up from his chair and moved to the desk, pushing aside his father’s papers to write a letter. Then, ringing again for Thornton, he folded the note and sealed it, imprinting the warm red wax with his signet.
When the footman returned, Deverill smiled and said, “Seen him well away?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Now, find Ned Shalton and send him to me. Oh, and Thornton,” Deverill added as the man turned away.
Thornton turned back. “Yes, my lord?”
“I’d be most obliged if you could contrive to forget everything that occurred here within the past half hour.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
When Shalton arrived, Deverill said, “Take this note to the stables at Tuscombe Park, Ned, and give it into the tender keeping of a groom named Clemons to be delivered to his mistress at his earliest opportunity. And, Ned, don’t get yourself run off the premises if you can help it.”
“Aye, Major,” the batman said, grinning. “A billet doux, is it? I’ll see it to the wench
safe enough.”
“Not a wench this time, Ned. A lady, so mind your tongue.”
“Oh, aye, Major. Mumchance it is then, sure enough.”
“How are things with Kibworth?”
“Got a truce, Major. He don’t sniff at me; I don’t knock him into the middle of next week. Seems to work just fine.”
“Out, Ned. Have a care with that note.”
When the man had gone, Gideon turned his attention to the pile of papers on the desk and soon discovered that there were as many pertaining to business in Gloucestershire as to Jervaulx’s affairs in Cornwall. He began to sort them into orderly piles.
Late that afternoon, when Daintry went down to the stables with Charley to feed carrots to Victor and Cloud, Clemons approached them, looking carefully around as he did so.
“What is it, Clemons?” Daintry demanded. “You look as if you had got smuggled goods hidden under your coat.”
He put a finger to his lips, glanced around again, turned so Charley could not see what he did, then slid a hand inside his jacket and pulled out the note. “Mum’s the word, Miss Daintry. I were told to slip this to you on the sly. Didn’t know the man what brung it. You got yourself a beau now? That it?”
She was staring at the bold black letters forming her name, and she did not speak. Turning it over, she saw the seal, and though it was not one with which she was familiar, she knew whose it must be. Carefully, so as not to damage the wax, she slid her fingernail beneath it; loosening it so that the seal came away whole. Then, carefully unfolding the note, and ignoring Clemons’s urgent suggestion that it would be better to wait until she need not fear being seen and reported, she read Deverill’s words. Calling to Charley that she was going back to the house, she hurried inside to find Lady Ophelia.
Her aunt was in her bedchamber, beginning the important business of dressing for dinner.
“Look at this, Aunt,” Daintry said, holding out the letter.
“I cannot look at it,” Lady Ophelia said, observing the fall of her skirt in the cheval glass. To her maid, hovering nearby, she said brusquely, “I’ll have the gray sarcenet instead, Alma. This gown don’t become me today, and Sir Lionel is coming to dine with us.” When the woman had turned away, she said in the same tone, “Well, don’t keep me on tenterhooks, child. I can see that letter came from a gentleman. Who is it?”
Daintry glanced at the maid.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t heed Alma. Close as an oyster, as you ought to know after all these years. Who’s it from?”
“Deverill.” Daintry waited for a reaction.
“Most improper, but one supposes that if he had sent it over with a footman to be delivered in the front hall, the servants would have taken it straight to your father, and we should have heard his reaction echo through the whole house. Read it.”
Daintry said, “He wrote only to tell me that Geoffrey has gone to Launceston to find Lord Jervaulx.”
“The Assizes are in session,” Lady Ophelia said wisely. “Summer ones at Bodmin; winter at Launceston. That’s why Lionel has come down from London just now, which I thought providential, but I wonder what Geoffrey thinks Jervaulx can do for him.”
“I don’t know, and Deverill does not say. He writes that Geoffrey was most put out by Susan’s disappearance, and that if I had anything to do with it, I ought to advise her to come to her senses as quickly as possible. If that isn’t just like a man, to make such a judgment before he has discovered all the facts! At least I know that when he does hear them, he will understand, and then he won’t be so quick to take Geoffrey’s side.”
“You have no business to be telling anyone your sister’s private business, Daintry, and for that matter, if he should learn the facts, you ought by now to have learned better than to expect any man to see any matter from a woman’s point of view. They don’t do it and never will. I doubt it’s even possible.”
“Deverill will,” Daintry said confidently, remembering that he was unafraid even to be caught riding a sidesaddle. Surely, a man like that would examine both sides of an issue and then have the good sense to see which side was right. Deciding, improper or not, to reply to his note directly after dinner and explain to him just how matters actually stood, she soon took her leave to change her own dress for dinner.
Her hope that Seacourt’s mission would prove futile lasted only until his return late the following afternoon, when he and St. Merryn, accompanied by Charles, entered the drawing room where she sat with the other women. Seacourt looked pleased with himself; St. Merryn and Charles looked extremely put out.
Her father said testily, “See what you’ve done now, girl. All over the county it will be within the week that my daughters have gone mad. How do you imagine that sits with my pride, eh?”
Davina had been reading aloud from a Gothic romance for the entertainment of the others. She closed the book, saying, “What is it, Papa St. Merryn? What have Daintry and Susan done?”
When St. Merryn only continued to glare at Daintry, Charles said, “Susan has run away. Seacourt is trying to find her.”
“Dear me,” Davina said on a note of sarcasm, “why would any woman want to run away from her husband?”
Daintry, realizing that Davina had not been present to hear Susan’s story, said, “I will tell you about it later. Papa, I am sorry you are vexed, but whatever Geoffrey has done now, or threatens to do, I still will not help him find Susan.”
Seacourt reached inside his coat and withdrew a rolled bit of parchment. “Oh, yes, you will, much though you will dislike it. I told you the law would support me, and so it has.”
“What can the law do? It cannot make me tell you anything.”
Seacourt looked at Lady Ophelia. “What of you, ma’am? Do you also refuse to tell me where my wife can be found?”
“I do,” Lady Ophelia said firmly.
“Do you know the meaning of habeas corpus?”
Lady Ophelia grimaced. “I do. Is that what you have in your hand, sir, a writ of habeas corpus?”
“It is.”
The old lady nodded, and Daintry, unable to stand the suspense a moment longer, cried, “But what is it, Aunt Ophelia? What can a piece of paper have to say to any of this?”
“Only this, my pet,” Seacourt said smugly. “If you do not tell me where Susan is, then you must produce her at the Assize Court in Launceston by Thursday next, or the magistrate—in this instance, the Marquess of Jervaulx—will take great pleasure in throwing you and dear Lady Ophelia into the Launceston jail.”
“He can’t do that!”
“He can and he will. Now where are my wife and child?”
Daintry looked pleadingly at Lady Ophelia. “I won’t tell him. I would rather go to prison.”
Lady Ophelia’s lips tightened, and she was silent for a long moment before she said, “There is no need yet to speak of prison. You say the writ demands their presence on Thursday, Seacourt?”
“Yes, but surely you won’t suffer the indignity of showing yourself in a courtroom, ma’am. Just tell me where they can be found, and there will be no need to subject yourself to that.”
“Nothing undignified about a proper English courtroom,” the old lady said. “You forget one thing, young man. Once we get there, we will have our own tale to unfold.”
“But to what purpose, ma’am? No court will rule against a husband in a case like this one. If you and Daintry want to make fools of yourselves, I cannot stop you, but warn Susan that the angrier she makes me, the sorrier she will be when Jervaulx orders her home again.”
When he had gone, Daintry took the first opportunity to confer privately with her aunt. “What are we going to do, ma’am? Must we give Susan up to them?”
“Do you imagine your sister will allow you to go to prison on her behalf?”
Daintry had not thought of that. She sighed. “No.”
“Do you mean to ask Annie to put herself, Granny Popple, and Feok at risk on Susan’s behalf? Or do you suppose that Seacou
rt, once he finds out, will forgive them for helping Susan?”
“Oh, this is dreadful! Very well, then, we must do as you proposed, ma’am, and lay Susan’s case before the court. Papa will not like it, but Jervaulx must be fair, after all, and we will have Deverill to speak to him for us. I will write at once to tell him what Geoffrey has done now.”
“Proper young ladies do not correspond with unmarried gentlemen, and certainly not about private family affairs.”
“Oh, pooh, as if I cared a straw for that. Besides, after he wrote to warn us of where Geoffrey was going, I thought it only sensible to write back—explaining the truth, you know—and now it is only courteous to let him know about that… that what-not Geoffrey managed to get from Lord Jervaulx.”
“’Tis a writ of habeas corpus.”
“You may have the body,” Daintry said, remembering long-ago Latin lessons with her aunt. “But what does it mean, precisely.”
“Just what he said. I confess, Lionel Werring warned me that this might well be the next step, but I could see no good to be accomplished by putting you in a fidget when he might still be proved wrong. We must produce Susan, either to Seacourt, since he was awarded the writ, or to the magistrate.”
“Then Jervaulx it is,” Daintry said, drawing a long breath. “Geoffrey Seacourt will rue this day, ma’am.”
“I hope so,” Lady Ophelia said doubtfully. “I must write to warn Lionel that we shall have need of his services.”
Fourteen
GIDEON RECEIVED DAINTRY’S LETTERS with only a small degree of surprise, for he had long since understood that she did not concern herself much with notions of propriety. Nonetheless, he did not reply to them. Her father did not share her notions, and he had no wish to figure, since he had written the first letter, as the instigator of a clandestine correspondence.
That she and the other ladies meant to confront Seacourt and expected Jervaulx, not to mention himself, to support them, he found disquieting. He smiled at her naive assumption that he could influence his father, and though he knew he could not, decided he must certainly attend the Assize Court on Thursday, so that she should not think he had basely deserted them. And, too, despite all her independent airs and graces, she was vulnerable and all too likely to make a fool of herself if he were not there to protect her from the consequences of her own impulsiveness.
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