She snatched it, dabbing at her eyes then scrunching it into a ball in her fist. “I don’t belong here,” she sniffled, shaking out the handkerchief again for the next onslaught of tears.
“Nonsense, you’re the Countess of Leavenby, of course you belong here.”
“No, I don’t.” Simone shook her head then looked him straight in the eyes. “I feel crude and vulgar.”
“Utter nonsense.”
“Is it? Have you heard the whispers? We are nothing but a joke.” She wiped her eyes again and blew her nose. She stepped back and stiffened her spine though the wretched tears continued to fall. Somehow she had to escape.
“Simone, it’s not like that.” His protest sounded hollow to her.
“Aye, aye it is.” She turned her head away, sick to her stomach. It had become clear to her this evening. What better way for Temple to flaunt his contempt of the ton than to marry an outsider? That was why he had married her, to defy his mother and the edicts of society. Feelings for her had had no part in it. He had tried to warn her earlier today but she had discounted it.
“Don’t run away. Besides, if it’s scandal they want, why don’t we give it to them?” He stuck his head into the ballroom. “See, they’ve just begun another contradanse. We can fill the spot at the end. Perhaps we should time how long it takes for the lemmings to stampede and leave us.” He gave her a lopsided smile and a sly wink in a transparent attempt to make light of the situation.
“No, no, I can’t,” sobbed Simone. “I want to go.”
He stopped then, all jocularity gone. He stepped back and inspected her face. What he saw there must have convinced him it was better for them to leave for all he said was, “Very well.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Wait here, I’ll get your wrap.”
She nodded, relishing the cool night air on the heat of her face. She drifted over to the balcony’s edge, tucking the soggy handkerchief into her sleeve before placing her fevered hands on the cool stone railing. Looking down into the dim gardens below, she spotted glowing lanterns and, here and there, couples, one or two locked in passionate embrace far from prying eyes while others strolled casually through the secretive darkness.
The minutes trickled away and still Temple didn’t return. Perhaps she had misunderstood and he meant for her to wait in the front foyer where they had come in. She released her grip and gathered her courage. Hesitant, she moved back into the ball room, skirting the wall and trying to avoid notice.
It was not to be.
As she approached the plaster archway leading to the front doors, Lady Frederica walked past her, deliberately turning her face to give her the cut direct. The titters began again.
Anger spurted through Simone and she hurried after the woman, pulling on her elbow to turn her around.
“It was you, wasn’t it,” she accused Lady Frederica, not caring who heard. “It’s not enough that you snub me within our home but now you must snub me in public?”
“Why, I do not know what you are talking about,” replied Lady Frederica, a smirk on the rouged lips.
“Why yes, you do.” Simone stabbed an index finger at the other woman’s face. “Since Temple and I have returned to London, you have avoided me and avoided him. You’ve taken every meal in your room and only come out when you knew you would not see us. I know from Joanna you’ve tried to turn her against us as well but she would have no part in it.” She paused and took in a deep, shuddering breath.
“Temple wanted to send you away but I said no, that it was your home too and you should stay. I thought you just needed to get to know me and perhaps then you would come to love me. But no, you had other ideas. And now I see what they were. You intended all along to destroy me, to destroy any chance I had for being accepted in polite society. Are you happy then, Lady Frederica? You ruined my coming out.”
Simone threw back her shoulders and glared at the faces around her, some incredulous, some amused, and others openly embarrassed at the scene unfolding before them.
“Coming out? You?” The other woman hissed. “You don’t deserve a coming out, you’re nothing but gutter trash who somehow bewitched my son.”
Gutter trash? Gutter trash? For an instant the hateful face disappeared in a red haze. The façade tumbled down.
“Aye, lady, I be gutter trash. From the workhouse on Bishopsgate Street. But I tell ye well, yer so called gutter trash is ‘ead and shoulders above the trash ye call yer friends. Me friends be loyal and loving. What of yer friends,” she said, sweeping her arms out to the crowd surrounding them. “Think ye that they would be yer friends if ye weren’t the Lady Frederica, Dowager Countess of Leavenby. Think ye that they would be yer friends if ye did not have money?”
Someone laughed, a barking sound quickly shushed. The sound brought Simone down with a tumbling thud. Horror at what she had said penetrated the mist of anger. She clapped her hands over her mouth, looking around desperately for Temple. He was nowhere to be seen.
What have I done? Wide eyed, she looked at Lady Frederica. You’ve insulted Temple’s mother in the presence of her peers, that’s what. You let your temper get the better of you. You’ve just become the very thing Lady Frederica has accused you of—gutter trash.
She had to escape.
Now.
She bolted from the house, leaving the jeers and laughter behind her. What had she thought, that she could transform into a lady of quality. One angry word against her and she had lost all reason. One slip and she had thrown it all away. She had to run.
Back to where she belonged, far away from this artificial world.
And run she did, tripping down the stairs, dodging between waiting carriages, and dashing down the street to disappear around the corner before melting away into the comforting cloak of night.
* * *
It was his fault, thought a grim Temple. An ill-timed trip to the water closet, an unexpected encounter with Lady Susannah, who surprisingly bore him no grudge, and he had lost precious time. He knew Simone was upset yet he had been unable to politely tear himself away from Lady Susannah and her prattle on her upcoming nuptials to Lord Simpson.
He had returned just in time to catch Lady Frederica’s snub of Simone. Simone and her refusal to be cowed by his mother filled him with pride but the pride had dissipated into dismay when Simone had dropped the charade and spilled the beans.
He must rescue her immediately and for her sake save whatever face he could. However, the crowd had tightened and by the time he had been able to push himself through, Simone had disappeared outside.
Shoving bodies one way and another, he darted after her, down the stairs and into the middle of the street. She was gone, disappeared like a wraith into the shadows of the evening.
Rage and despair mingled. Rage at his mother for her unprovoked and undeserved attack.
And despair for Simone’s loss of innocence.
He looked down at the wisp of silk and feathers he still had in his hands, lifting it to his nose to inhale the scent. Her scent, the scent of sunshine and smiles and lemon verbena.
He had to find her. He had to make things right for her.
Chapter Twenty
“She’s disappeared into thin air, my lord.” Constable Wyndham Jones stood in Temple’s library a week later, twisting his hat around and around in his slender hands. Tall and thin, he carried a forbidding presence, due in no small part to the scar that twisted his mouth into a half smile.
“How can that be?” Temple sat at his desk. Wearily he rubbed his eyes before leaning forward to prop his face on both fists. A smudged glass and half-empty decanter of brandy stood at his elbow, a mute testament to its deadening properties.
It had been a long seven days since Simone had disappeared from the Belmont’s ball. Seven days that felt more like seven years. Seven days where he had paced the floor incessantly during the nights and searched the streets incessantly during the days.
He had even enlisted the help of the Bow Street Run
ners the morning after her flight; even the much vaunted detectives had not been able to find a clue as to her whereabouts.
Somehow she had dropped from the face of the earth.
“We’ll keep searching for her, my lord. I’ll report two days hence.” The constable jammed on his hat and spun around on his heel. He marched to the door and swung around to sketch a brief salute before disappearing through the door. His footsteps clattered on the bare floor, the sound echoing and bouncing down the hall much like Temple’s thoughts echoed and bounced within his mind.
If only he hadn’t left Simone’s side, if only the ball room hadn’t been so crowded, if only his mother had left well alone. If only, if only. But he had. And it had been. And she hadn’t. The deed was done, Simone had taken flight and he couldn’t really blame her. The question was, where had she gone?
The obvious answer had been Mrs Dougherty’s workhouse on Bishopsgate Street. However, that lady had been unresponsive, even hostile the day he had called the morning after the ball.
“Nay, milord, there ain’t no one here by that name.” She had tried to slam the door in his face, which he forestalled with one well-placed foot.
“Perhaps you know her better as Mona,” he suggested, gracing her with a smile that would normally melt the most hardened of hearts. Particularly those of women. However, it appeared to have lost its charm for it had no apparent effect on her; if anything, the frown on her face deepened.
“Mona? Mona? That one ain’t been here for nigh on two years. Skipped out one night, she did. Ain’t never heard from her since. Now if ye don’t mind, I am busy.” This time, Mrs Dougherty was successful in slamming the door, leaving a somewhat bemused Temple standing on the front stoop.
Here he was, a week later and still befuddled over Simone’s disappearance.
Perhaps he should try the workhouse again even though the Runner he had hired to keep the place under surveillance had not seen any evidence of Mona. Perhaps Mrs Dougherty’s memory had improved in the intervening week.
There had been something about her manner that he had found shifty and evasive. Bloody hell, the woman knew something and he would wheedle it out of her one way or another. That’s where he would go today, to pay Mrs Dougherty another visit.
“Tedham!” he bellowed as he charged out of the library, startling the butler who happened to be walking down the hall carrying a tray piled high with tarnished silver. “My coat and hat. Have my horse brought around immediately.”
“Of course, my lord.” Tray clanking, the butler scuttled away.
Within minutes, Temple galloped off, hat pulled low over his forehead, coattails flapping, face grim, the very picture of a hunter in search of his quarry.
* * *
Frenzied pounding on the door interrupted a harried Mrs Dougherty.
“I’m coming,” she shouted as she climbed off the stool where she had been swiping at cobwebs in the corner of the dining hall with a twig broom.
“I’m coming,” she shouted again as she waddled the length of the hall toward the archway leading to the front foyer. Whoever pounded the door, pounded with a ferocity that rattled it in its hinges and jiggled the latch. It continued unabated, setting her nerves on edge.
“Oh, oh, oh,” she wheezed, “who is it this time?”
At length, she reached the heavy door. She pulled open the small grated window set within it to peer at the visitor, then, horrified, slammed it shut, turning to lean her back against the door.
“Criminy,” she muttered. “It’s him again. Mona told me he’d be coming back.” The pounding started again, vibrating down her back. She rolled her eyes. Now this was an awkward set to. Not unseen, mind you, but still awkward.
“Mrs Dougherty! I know you’re in there. Please let me in, I must talk to you.”
“I must talk to you,” she mimicked beneath her breath. I don’t think so, m’lord. Mona told me about you. I got nothing to say.
“Open the door. Please.”
The note of desperation in the ‘please’ softened her up a bit. She always was an easy mark for a heartfelt plea. “Only if ye quit yer pounding,” she shouted over the din.
The pounding stopped. Silence reigned for a few seconds before she pulled back the latch. The door barely opened a crack before the gentleman barged through, almost setting her back on her bottom.
“Mona Dougherty, I know you know her. Where is she, I must find her.” Temple grabbed the woman by her shoulders, barely restraining himself from giving her a good shake just to loosen her memory a bit. Just in time, he remembered his manners and dropped his hands.
“I told ye last time, she ain’t been here for two years.”
Mrs Dougherty was clearly not one to be intimidated. She hauled up her considerable bulk and crossed her arms, looking down her nose at the gentleman standing before her.
“She’s my wife, where is she?”
“It seems to me a gentleman such as yerself should keep better tabs on his woman,” she replied. “Anyway, ye wouldn’t be marrying the likes of Mona.”
“Simone. Her name is Simone.”
“Simone, I don’t know a Simone. And Mona?” Mrs Dougherty shook her head. “Mona ain’t here.”
Temple stepped back and took a long hard look at the obese woman. She was immoveable. Not only in her bulk but her mind.
Nonetheless, she lied to him. He could see it in the way she kept glancing away. Very well, she wouldn’t talk. He would just have to wait around and see what he could see. This time he wouldn’t be dissuaded by her refusal to help him.
“I must beg pardon, I seem to have made a mistake.”
He let his scepticism show so the woman would know he saw straight through her. He swept her a bow that left her gape-mouthed before he moved out into the street, pushing through the crowded street until he found a convenient niche from which to watch the workhouse.
Simone was near. He could feel it in his bones.
* * *
“Insistent bugger,” Mrs Dougherty sniped as she entered the kitchen. “As arrogant as the rest of them.”
“Yes. Yes he is,” said a weary Simone, leaning against the one and only table. She had spent the morning scrubbing the kitchen floor. Anything she could do to take her mind off Temple—the more laborious, the better, as if her very sweat could wash away the thoughts of him. “I told you he would come back. Thank you for not giving me away.”
“Well now, Mrs Dougherty always looks after her own. Yer like a daughter to me, Mona. As long as ye need to stay here, ye can.” She plopped down on the ladder back chair by the fireplace and began fanning her face vigorously. “Ale, if ye please.”
Simone handed Mrs Dougherty a battered mug filled to the brim. “I’m grateful for your help.”
“What are ye going to do now? He ain’t giving up, you know.” The other woman drained the mug and held it up to Simone. “That tasted like I need another one.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Simone again dipped the mug into the ale barrel by the door, wiping off the dripping foam with one sleeve before handing it back. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” She sank to her knees in front of the woman and sat back on her heels.
“Aye, it’ll be hard fer ye, having lived the life and all. I wager this house ain’t so fine anymore. Not that I don’t try to make it welcoming,” Mrs Dougherty said with a self-deprecating grin, knowing full well her job was not to make the workhouse welcoming at all.
It wasn’t meant to be a haven for the idle at the expense of the parish, but simply a temporary solution for those on hard times. Accordingly, the rules were strict, the life grim. No alcohol, no tobacco, no personal possessions.
“I know I can’t stay here forever.” Simone pulled off the chain and medallion from around her neck. “What do you know of this? Temple—er, Lord Leavenby thought this would be a clue for me.” She handed it over.
“What?” The older woman squinted at it. “I suppose it could be a clue,” she said slowly as she
handed it back. “Ye had it on ye the day ye came to me. I had a mind to sell it but ye were such a sweet little thing, I didn’t have the heart. I kept it for ye until I thought ye old enough to look after it yerself.”
Simone nodded. She well understood how lucky she had been to have been taken in under Mrs Dougherty’s wing.
“Any time yer ready to talk, I’m ready to listen. Ye been quiet since you came back, Mona. Yer hurting real bad but maybe it’s time to let it out.”
“I can’t go back to him, I simply can’t. I don’t belong in his world.” She clasped her hands in front of her and rested her chin on her knuckles. As much as she denied it, the heavy ring on her left hand was evidence she had been part of that world. “But I’ve been thinking.”
“Aye, that ye have, I’ve seen it on yer face.” The woman leaned over and patted Simone on the hand. “What have ye decided?”
“I’m going to go back to the street life. I want to open my own ale house and I need money to do it. I’m still the best there is at picking pockets. I know if I put my mind to it I can get what I need.”
And if I can’t, I shall retrieve the package I hid and see what it is. Temple had thought it valuable so it must contain something of value she could use. He hadn’t asked about it after their arrival in London so it would be safe to assume he no longer wanted it—would it not?
“And then?”
Simone patted the medallion. “Then I’ll hire a Bow Street Runner to find out what this means. Maybe it can tell me where I’m from.”
“Yer sure? Ain’t it a bit risky? Stealing money to open an ale house? What if yer fancy lord finds out? As much as ye ran away, yer still the wife of a peer.”
“Well, he won’t know, will he?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for ye to fight for him? To be his wife? Ye can do it, yer a bright little thing.”
“No.” Aghast, Simone shook her head. “I love him, Mrs Dougherty. I love him too much to be a constant embarrassment to him. After a lifetime of running, he finally has what he wants. A home, a position, a hopeful future. He deserves someone better than me.” Someone like the woman I saw with him the night of the ball.
The Countess' Lucky Charm Page 19