Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03]

by Dangerous Illusions

  “That’s better,” he muttered. “This damned gown is in the way.” He shifted his weight to grab the nightdress, and quick as the lightning, she jerked her knees up to push him away with her feet. One knee grazed him between the legs, and he yelled in pain and jumped back, stumbling to avoid her flailing feet, his expression a mix of pain and fury. “By God, you little—”

  The bedchamber door opened, and the glow of a lamp spilled into the room. “My lady, are you all right?”

  Starting as if he’d been shot, Seacourt straightened and spun around, somehow managing to yank the quilt over her as he did. “Who is there?”

  “Oh, sir! How you startled me! It is I, sir, Hilda, Lady Catherine’s maid. I came—”

  “You startled me too, wench. I heard Lady Daintry cry out with fear at the storm as I passed by,” he added in a tone of concern. “I came in to calm her, but what brings you here?”

  “Why, the very same thing, sir,” she said. “Lady Catherine remembered Lady Daintry saying she has a terror of thunderstorms, so she sent me to be sure she was not frightened. Lady Catherine said if she was scared, I was to stay right here with her.”

  “An excellent notion,” Seacourt said. “Not only has she been terrified but she’s had a frightening nightmare as well. You will be glad of Hilda’s company, will you not, my dear?”

  “Yes,” Daintry said fervently. She saw the glittering look in his eyes again and knew he was still angry, and even somehow blamed her for the maid’s intrusion. He probably knew as well as she did that she did not fear the storm, but since he had been the one to suggest it in the first place, he could hardly tell Hilda now that her mistress was in error to believe such a thing. It was all very odd, and though she was grateful for Hilda’s arrival, she wondered if Catherine had known he would be there.

  As Seacourt moved to go, the maid said, “Oh, I nearly forgot, sir, but Lady Catherine’s window is rattling so that she cannot sleep. She said if I saw anyone who could fix it, would I send them to her, but at this hour I don’t know who—”

  “I’ll tend to it, Hilda. Good night.” And he was gone.

  Daintry nearly sobbed in relief, and the maid said matter-of-factly, “Can I fetch you anything, ma’am?”

  A pistol, Daintry thought, or a very large knife, or even a basin to be sick in, but she said, “No, thank you, Hilda. Where will you sleep?”

  “I believe there is a cot in the dressing room, my lady. I’ll leave the door open, shall I?”

  “Please.” The maid said nothing about Geoffrey’s presence, and Daintry, not having the least idea how much she knew about his habits or about Catherine’s motives in sending her, merely breathed a prayer of thanksgiving and tried to go back to sleep.

  She was unsuccessful, and although the storm finally passed, she was wide awake when the sun rose. Getting up, she went to the window, pushed it open, and inhaled the fresh sea breeze. A few lingering clouds floated over the Channel, looking serene and beautiful, as if there had never been a storm. There was no reason to stay at Seacourt Head a minute longer than necessary.

  Hilda was not in the dressing room, so she assumed the woman had returned to her mistress, and turned her attention to dressing herself. Though she did not much want to go down to breakfast, she knew Susan would send someone to discover what was wrong if she did not, and she could not face the thought of telling her sister what had happened in the night.

  In the clear light of day it was impossible to imagine telling anyone about it, for although she was certain Hilda would confirm Geoffrey’s presence in her room, his seemingly casual declaration that she suffered from nightmares made it probable that he would insist her belief that she had been molested to be no more than a reaction to a particularly vivid dream. In any event, she shrank from the thought of describing to anyone precisely what he had done to her.

  The only people present in the breakfast room when she entered were Catherine and Susan, and both greeted her as they normally would, but the incident seemed somehow to have isolated her from them. Though she felt as if they ought to be able to know everything Geoffrey had done simply by looking at her, she could read nothing in their expressions but innocent welcome, so when Catherine said nothing about sending Hilda to her in the night, Daintry also said nothing. She had no wish to add to Susan’s troubles, and Catherine was certainly not a woman in whom she could confide. In fact, she did not even know that Catherine had sent Hilda to her, only that the maid had said she had.

  Servants often knew even more about what went on in a house than their masters or mistresses did, and the fact that Hilda had left the dressing room before sunrise might mean that Catherine had done no more than send her to find someone to stop the window’s rattle, and knew nothing of her absence afterward.

  As soon as Daintry had eaten, she sent for Charley, and taking leave of Susan and Catherine, the two left at once for the stables. They were crossing the muddy yard, approaching the stable door when they heard the unmistakable scream of a horse, followed by two shots fired in quick succession.

  Daintry’s heart thudded, and she saw that Charley had stopped still in her tracks, her face turning white. Before Daintry could think to stop her, the child came to life and darted into the stable. Daintry rushed after her, terrified to think what they would find. Inside, she stopped, sudden tears blinding her at the sound of Charley’s sobs.

  “Oh, Victor,” the child cried, “I thought it was you!”

  Dashing a hand to wipe the tears from her eyes, Daintry saw that Charley had flung open the door to Victor’s stall and was hugging the gelding’s neck as it nuzzled her, searching for sugar or carrots. Cloud’s silvery head appeared over the gate to the next stall, and he whinnied, recognizing his mistress.

  Clemons spoke before she realized he was beside her. “Right sorry about that, my lady. I’d have told the lads to hold off had I knowed the lass was so nigh, but one of Sir Geoffrey’s hunters panicked in the storm and broke a leg. The lad looking after it thought it were nobbut a bad sprain, but now the farrier says as how it’s broke, and we had to put the poor beast down.”

  “It was not your fault, Clemons,” she said, realizing she was trembling. “If our horses are saddled, let us go at once.”

  In those brief fear-filled moments before she had seen that Cloud and Victor were safe, she had remembered Melissa’s words of the day before and Geoffrey’s angry comment about horse tricks, and she had not doubted for a minute that the man was capable of vicious, petty revenge, even against a child.

  There was still no sign of him, and she did not inquire as to his whereabouts, not having the least notion what she might say to him or how she would act, but knowing full well that if she never laid eyes on the man again, she would not regret it. They rode out of the stable yard, and as they approached the cliff path, she glanced at Charley, who had been unnaturally silent. “A penny for your thoughts,” she said gently.

  Charley met her gaze but did not speak for a long moment. Then she said, “I thought … That is, for just a minute, until I saw him, I thought maybe it was Victor. You know how scared he gets when it thunders, Aunt Daintry, and …”

  “I know,” Daintry said, not waiting for her to try to complete the thought.

  Soberly, Charley said, “What makes some houses comfortable and others not, Aunt Daintry? I don’t mean their furnishings; I mean the way they make a person feel.”

  “The people in them, I suppose.”

  “Uncle Geoffrey is horrid.”

  In full agreement but aware that it would not do at all to enlarge upon the topic, she said, “You were in the wrong yesterday, you know. He was right to be displeased with you.”

  “I know, but does he always want to hit people when he’s angry with them?”

  “Some men are like that, darling.”

  Another long silence fell, and Daintry did not break it. She had no desire to discuss Seacourt and thought it best to let Charley think her feelings through for herself.

&nb
sp; The bright sunlight and the ocean scents wafting upward on the sea breezes cleared her head, making it a little easier to put the incident of the previous night behind her. When the silver dun tossed its head, its dancing pace indicating that it was ripe for a run, she took herself firmly in hand. “Shall we let them out? Cloud is champing at the bit.”

  Their return journey was without incident, but Daintry’s interest in continuing the frequent visits to Seacourt Head had died. So, it seemed, had Charley’s, for the child said nothing about returning to visit Melissa again before Christmas. And however well intended their visits might have been, Daintry knew now that they might well have made matters worse for Susan in some ways. Certain as she was now that Seacourt knew how Charley had helped his wife and child escape him that day on the moor, she thought it would be better for all of them if she and Charley played least in sight for a while. And, in any case, with Christmas approaching and winter setting in with a vengeance, there was little opportunity to ride anywhere.

  Davina and Charles returned from Truro barely speaking to each other, but Daintry discovered not only that Deverill had been one of the guests but that he and Jervaulx had left Cornwall for Gloucestershire, and she wished more than ever that she had gone to the house party rather than to Seacourt Head.

  Lady St. Merryn seemed to take it for granted that her elder daughter’s family would join them for the holiday, but the harsh weather provided an excuse for Seacourt to keep his family home, and Daintry, though she missed Susan and Melissa, was not sorry. A number of other guests did join them, however, including Lord Alvanley and Sir Lionel Werring, both of whom soon admitted that they had been invited to see the New Year in at Jervaulx Abbey.

  Lady Ophelia took instant exception to the news. “Into the enemy’s nest, Lionel, that’s where you’re going,” she declared, fuming. It was the day after Christmas, and everyone had gathered in the drawing room after dinner.

  Lady St. Merryn, sitting upright for once, suggested plaintively that the weather still was not suitable for travel.

  “Not to worry, ma’am,” Werring retorted, holding out his wine glass for Medrose to refill. “Daresay we shan’t fall into a snowdrift, shall we, Alvanley?”

  Alvanley’s eyes twinkled, and his cherubic smile lit his face as he said to Lady St. Merryn, “I doubt we shall get lotht on the main road to Gloucestershire, you know, ma’am.”

  “I hope you do,” Lady Ophelia said tartly. “Serve you both right, going over to the enemy like that. You heard that wretch Jervaulx in court, Lionel, saying a woman must be better off with any husband, even one who tortures her, than on her own.”

  “But, my dear Ophelia, that scarcely makes him your enemy, I hope,” the solicitor said blandly, “for I have said similar things to you on any number of occasions.”

  “That is not the same thing,” she said. “One debates such things as a matter of course, but that courtroom was real. And prating utter drivel, Jervaulx dared to call it law!”

  Sir Lionel swirled the amber liquid in his glass and said gently, “It is the law. Moreover, Jervaulx believes, as many do, that man is woman’s natural protector and defender, and one can scarcely blame him when the notion is as old as the Bible.”

  “Very true,” Alvanley said. “Ever thince poor old Adam gave up hith rib to make Eve. There are great differences between the thexes, Lady Ophelia. You cannot dithagree with that, you know.”

  “Try and see if she cannot,” St. Merryn said bitterly. “Must you prattle of our affairs to all and sundry, Ophelia?”

  “Oh, pooh,” she said. “Lionel was there, and Alvanley has already heard the whole, for I told him myself. As to the drivel about Adam’s rib, any sensible person must disagree, since the Bible clearly was written by men as a fable to entertain other men. Simple logic tells us God must have created woman first, since women, not men, give birth, but the writers of the Bible had to make up a way for a man to give birth in order to create an importance for him that otherwise he did not possess.”

  Lady St. Merryn gasped in shock, and Cousin Ethelinda twittered, “My dear Ophelia, such blasphemy! What would Reverend Sykes think of your saying such dreadful things about the Bible?”

  “Reverend Sykes knows exactly what I think,” Lady Ophelia said. “We have had more than one stimulating discussion about those very things, and he, I might add, has even admitted that women ought to have a good deal more say-so in this life. I hope someday to convince him that we ought to be allowed the same political and economic rights that men have.”

  Testily, St. Merryn said, “Upon my word, Ophelia, what will you say next? Women are not equal to men and never will be. Even to suggest they should have such rights implies they are fit to assume power.” He laughed, and to her evident disgust, the other men laughed too. “Talk about something sensible, woman!”

  Daintry wondered what Deverill would say, and decided he would most likely agree with her father. Still, remembering some of their discussions, she thought he might at least be willing to discuss the matter, and at all events, it would be interesting to ask him. She thought it was a pity he had left Cornwall.

  Their guests departed for Jervaulx Abbey the next day, and heavy, intermittent rains settled in for several weeks. St. Merryn and Charles departed for Leicestershire, however, for the hunting season, leaving the ladies to their own devices.

  Davina did not hesitate to make known her disgust at being left behind, but when Daintry asked if she would rather have accompanied the earl and Charles to their neat little hunting box at Melton Mowbray, Davina stared at her. “Merciful heavens, no! I cannot imagine anything more uncomfortable, but it astonishes me that your great-aunt and her friends have not yet devised a way for ladies to enjoy themselves while all the men go hunting.”

  The weather remained inclement for nearly two months, making everything gloomy, but at last it cleared to dull gray skies, and St. Merryn and Charles returned to escort their ladies to London. Leaving Charley with her governess as was their annual custom, they departed the final week of February; however, the two-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey took two weeks to accomplish, because Lady St. Merryn insisted upon stopping frequently, either to recoup her strength with food and drink or to spend a night or two with friends along the way. St. Merryn grumbled at the delays but made no attempt to countermand her instructions.

  They reached the outskirts of the metropolis at last on a drizzly March afternoon, and Daintry, occupying the forward seat of the carriage opposite Lady Ophelia and Davina, was profoundly grateful to hear the carriage wheels rattle onto the cobblestones of Kensington High Street. Her mother and Cousin Ethelinda occupied a second carriage all to themselves, while St. Merryn and Charles either rode or traveled in a third. The fourth and fifth carriages contained their personal servants, and several other vehicles followed behind with all the baggage.

  As the cavalcade rolled past the magnificent brick facade of Kensington Palace and turned into Knightsbridge, Daintry saw that the bare branches of the trees in the gardens and adjoining Hyde Park were shrouded with mist, and dripping, but on sunnier days she knew the spacious gravel roads would be crowded from two until five each afternoon with horsemen and carriages, and the fashionable walks would be so crowded with well-dressed people, passing to or returning from the gardens, that it would be difficult for one to proceed. Only the Hyde Park turnpike remained to be passed, and then they would be in Mayfair.

  Twenty minutes later, the carriages drew up on the west side of Berkeley Square before the tall, brick, stone-dressed house that William Kent had built the previous century for the second earl. The scale of its architectural elements was impressive, for it was designed in a plain Palladian style with wide window spacing and pedimented, balustraded windows. Though the facade was restrained, it had a decided sense of ceremony, and Daintry thought the house looked enormously self-assured.

  They passed through the entrance hall, a modest, stone-flagged room that gave no hint of the magnificent staircase so
aring up through the center of the house. A breathtaking example of Kent’s best work, though its oak treads were no more than four feet wide, the curved flights swept upward, splitting and turning back on themselves, and bridging the landings as the upper flights disappeared behind screens of Ionic columns. The domed ceiling above was like the interior of a jeweled casket, the panels between the heavily gilded ribs having been painted by Kent himself in grisaille on dark red and blue grounds. And, as was frequently the case with Kent, the coffering and modeling of the ceiling was real and not an optical illusion.

  Daintry loved the house and, as she always did when she first arrived, left the others to their own devices and went quickly upstairs to the great drawing room with its rich blue fabrics and curtains, and beyond to the twin saloons and smaller parlors, then up another flight to her own yellow and white bedchamber. Seeing that all was in order, she returned to the drawing room level to be sure Lady St. Merryn was comfortably settled in her boudoir at the rear of the house.

  She was looking forward to the new Season with greater joy than usual, and thought Davina, too, appeared to be in excellent spirits. Davina had missed Charles during the weeks he had been in Leicestershire and had been delighted to welcome him home again, and Charles seemed to be more in charity with her as well.

  London was still thin of company, but Parliament had opened, and once the knocker was on the St. Merryn House door again, its inhabitants did not lack for visitors. Ladies Melbourne and Cowper called the day after their arrival and were soon followed by Lady Jersey and a number of others, including many of Lady Ophelia’s particular friends. It was also necessary to find time for all the fittings required by their seamstresses before the Tarrant ladies could be rigged out in the latest fashions.

  There were gentleman callers as well, and after an evening at Covent Garden, and another at a rout given by Lady Jersey, a steady stream of gentlemen began to leave cards and posies, all asking if Lady St. Merryn was at home to visitors when what they really wished to know was if her daughter was at home.