by Beth Bryan
“Whole crew of ’em go about together—Ryland and his sister, Charles and his sister and Lucinda.”
“Well then, Ivor, are we to expect an announcement soon?”
Ivor jerked his hand back from the biscuit tray and sent his glass tottering. He caught it just in time. “Here, steady on, Ricky. What do you mean by springing a question like that on a fellow?”
Dev turned and raised his eyebrow. “But, Ivor, I merely enquired if we are to expect an announcement of an engagement between young Ryland and Miss Neville. That is what we are discussing, is it not?”
“Oh, that. None planned that I know of. Ethelreda has some doubts that the gel’s fixed her interest in that way. The coming-out ball’s to take place shortly and Jasper Neville’s due in Town for that. Ryland will have to speak to him, and from what Ethelreda says, he’s dashed protective of his only chick.”
Mr. Devereux resumed his seat and sprawled at his ease. “Have you dined yet, Ivor?”
“No, but I just dropped in—”
“Then you must dine with me.” He touched the bell pull. “And I shall tell Larrigan to bring up several bottles of the burgundy you are so fond of.”
“Thankee, neffy, thankee. But what’s the occasion?”
Dev smiled seraphically. “Let’s just say, my dear uncle, that it is because I am so very glad to see you.”
Mr. Devereux rose earlier than was his wont the next morning. However, Dowsett remained unperturbed even when his master requested him to send a footman for a hackney.
After a quick breakfast then, Devereux leapt into the coach and ordered the driver to make for the Isle of Dogs. As he went through the gates of the hospice, he could hear the happy shouts of children sporting on the grass. He paid the hackney driver, then stood for a moment to watch them.
Their faces were bright, but he noted their thin bodies and pale cheeks. He was frowning when he finally went inside to meet Mr. Bunthorpe.
“How many children do you have here now?” he asked after the formalities had been exchanged.
“Counting your young Master Simms, there are five at present.”
“And their ailments?”
“Two are accident victims and the others...” Mr. Bunthorpe continued with a sigh, “their parents call it the ‘wasting fever.’ I should say it is a combination of insufficient food, unsanitary conditions and too much responsibility too soon.”
“It is damnable!” Devereux burst out. “More must be done!”
“I cannot argue with you there. But we are making progress. This hospice is one sign. Your interest and the interest of other persons of station and property is another.”
“It seems so little.”
“Perhaps. But I must mention that we hope also to persuade the government to act. There is some talk of an enquiry into the workings of the Poor Laws. Reform in that line would be of inestimable value in work such as ours.”
“There I can be of some assistance, for in that area I have some influence.”
“Any increase in awareness would be a blessing.”
“We shall speak more of this, Mr. Bunthorpe. But now, tell me how my young friend does.”
“He is in better pin, but again, rest, good food, clean air help him now. But to what shall we send him back?”
“There, too,” Devereux said with decision, “I may be of use. May I see him?”
“Certainly.” Mr. Bunthorpe consulted his watch. “He should just be finishing some milk and bread now. Let me take you to him.”
They went along a stone path bordered by red geraniums to where a spreading elm shaded the river bank. Seated on a blanket, the children were holding tin mugs and plates. A blue-coated attendant was handing put thick slabs of buttered bread.
Mr. Bunthorpe greeted him politely and asked if Master Simms could be excused. The attendant smiled and gestured to a freckle-faced, round-eyed boy.
“This is Mr. Devereux, Freddie,” the warden said. “He would like to speak to you. Perhaps you might sit on the bench.” He gestured to an old wooden seat a little farther off.
Freddie cast a wary look at his visitor and rather reluctantly rose. He did, however, manage to snaffle a thick slice before trailing after Devereux. Chewing steadily, he sat rather suspiciously at the far end of the seat.
“It weren’t my fault,” he said automatically.
“No,” agreed Dev calmly.
Freddie’s eyes grew rounder and he masticated more slowly. “I couldn’t help it.”
“I was entirely at fault. I must beg you to forgive me.”
Freddie was so surprised he forgot to chew. He stared unwinkingly at Mr. Devereux, swallowed convulsively and said, “That’s all right, then.”
“You are not a London man?” Devereux asked conversationally.
“How’d you know?”
“You sound more like someone from my part of the country.”
“Are you from Dorset then, sir?”
“Devon, actually.”
“Ah.” Freddie nodded knowledgeably. “My pa were in Devon once.”
“That was before you came to London?”
“Us only came to Lunnon three months ago.”
“And do you like it?” Devereux asked carefully, keeping all emotion from his voice.
Freddie’s face clouded. “It’s fine,” he mumbled, “us be doing fine.”
Mr. Devereux took a deep interest in a scull on the river. “Oh?” he said. “I asked, you know, because I had a suggestion to make.”
Freddie studied the boat also. He finished the last of his milk and, eyes still on the river, said with elaborate disinterest, “What be that, sir?”
“I have a house in Devon and I am in need of some help.”
“Truly?” Freddie’s pose of indifference vanished. “You’re not just bamming me?”
“No, Freddie,” he replied gently. “I am quite serious. Tell me, what is your father’s work?”
“He’s a farm hand, sir—a prime shepherd. He knows everything about sheep. But his old master, he decided to rent out his land and there weren’t work for Pa anymore.”
“So you came to London?”
“Us heard there’s work for everyone in Lunnon.”
“And has your pa found work?” Dev’s voice was even more gentle.
“He has that, in one of them man-u-factories. But—” Freddie blinked rapidly “—it’s too hard, sir. My mam says so and he coughs now, all the time. My mam says he’s got to get some good Dorchester air.”
Devereux rested his hand briefly on the boy’s thin shoulder and tactfully ignored the stifled sob. “I expect your mam is perfectly right and I promise that when Mr. Bunthorpe says you are well, you shall all travel to Devon together.”
“And live in the country again?” At Dev’s answering nod, a wide grin spread across Freddie’s freckled face. “Why, sir, that’s... that’s prime.”
Mr. Devereux was smiling when he left the hospice and summoned a hackney. But his smile dimmed as he came nearer to his destination. The driver looked dubious as he paid him off and strode down the filthy, narrow street.
It was not the first time Devereux had visited such areas and, as always, a cold anger seized him as he hastened on. The air was foetid here, but he did not reach for a handkerchief and he allowed no hint of his feelings to show upon his face.
Freddie had given him careful directions, so there must be an alley here. Yes, though “alley” was perhaps too grand a word for such a wretched opening. But here was the door Freddie had described. It was distinguished from its neighbours only by a lack of debris in front. He knocked and the door was opened by a thin, grey-haired woman in a neat apron.
“Mrs. Simms?” he asked. “I am Richard Devereux. I’ve just come from visiting Freddie.”
A look of near panic crossed her weary face. “Oh, sir, Freddie’s a good boy. I’m sure he never meant no harm.”
“I know that, Mrs. Simms. I have not come to complain. May I come in?”
&nbs
p; Mutely, Mrs. Simms gestured him into the one room. It obviously functioned as kitchen, dining room and bedroom. It was plainly, indeed sparsely, furnished. But it was clean and extremely neat. Mrs. Simms took one straight wooden chair and Devereux the only other.
“You don’t blame Freddie, then?” she asked, as though hesitant to believe him.
“It was altogether my fault,” he repeated firmly. “So I have come to offer you what recompense I may.”
“I’m sure Simms and I don’t want any such thing, sir.”
“But it would be a great help to me if you accepted and I’m persuaded it would be good for Freddie.”
“Freddie?” Mrs. Simms’s drawn face lightened.
“And for your husband, who I believe,” he added gently, “is not well.”
Her shoulders sagged. “No,” she said dully, “he’s not.”
“Then,” Devereux went on in the same tone, “I wonder if you and your family would consider working for me. I have estates in Devon and we are always looking for reliable workers.”
“Oh, sir!” Mrs. Simms’s face was transformed. “Do you mean, go back to the country?” Her words echoed her son’s.
“If you would, Mrs. Simms.”
“Oh, sir!” Overcome, she reached out and grasped his hand. “That I would!”
Dev disentangled his hand. He reached into his pocket and placed a fat purse on the scrubbed wooden table. “You will have expenses to cover when you remove to Devon, so pray accept this—” he looked at Mrs. Simms “—shall we say as an advance, to ease your way.”
Mrs. Simms blinked rapidly, then mastered herself. “I—I can’t say what this means to us, sir. And Simms!” She smiled, suddenly looking years younger. “Ah, sir, what’ll Simms say when he hears! Now,” she said, bustling over to some uneven shelves. “You’ll take some refreshment, I hope?”
He would not hurt her feelings by refusing as he pulled the chair to the table. Carefully, Mrs. Simms poured from a bottle into a cup.
“That’s good Dorset cider, sir. Us brought it with us, us did.” She took half a loaf from the shelf and cut it into thin slices. These she arranged on a blue-and-white plate and placed beside him.
He ate two pieces of the coarse bread, reflecting bitterly that it was probably the only food in the house. However, at least he’d made sure she had money to buy more.
He discussed the moving with Mrs. Simms as he ate. It was arranged that he would send a carriage to take her to the hospice tomorrow. There she and Mr. Bunthorpe would discuss when it would be permissible for Freddie to make the long journey south.
“But you need not wonder about that,” he said as he rose, “for whenever the warden says he may travel, I shall send a travelling coach for you and you yourselves shall set the pace of your journey.”
With Mrs. Simms’s thanks ringing in his ears, Devereux stepped out again into the stifling air. His face settled into a grim expression as he strode unseeing through the crowded, filthy streets.
That’s three saved, he thought to himself as he marched. But it was too few, always too few. And he could not take everyone to work for him in Devon.
He recalled Mr. Bunthorpe’s words. Yes, he must speak to those parliamentarians he knew. He could even manage a chat with the Prime Minister. And a word in Prinny’s ear wouldn’t go amiss, either.
Then there was Jasper Neville’s idea: to get more of the ton involved. He could approach some of his friends; even Charles might be interested. He’d have to pick the right moment there, though. Preferably one when Miss Belle Ryland was far, far away.
He remembered Ivor’s comment about a wife not countenancing such an interest. But surely that need not be true? There must be some females who would care for more than clothes and dances. For instance, someone like, well, Lucinda Neville. Now, with a woman like that, one who shared truly in his interests, marriage could be a real partnership.
Absorbed in his own thoughts, Mr. Devereux found himself already in the Strand; a hackney driver’s shouted curse brought him to himself in the middle of the thoroughfare. Making placating gestures, he hurried to the other side.
What on earth had he been thinking? Daydreaming, in truth! At his age! Rather guiltily Dev adjusted his hat and hailed another coach. He settled himself inside and this time he kept his mind firmly on the task of marshalling his influence—and no nonsense about females was allowed to intrude.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When she reached the Grantham house, Lucinda was informed that Miss Ryland had already left. The butler made his regrets, but he could not say where Miss Ryland had gone. He looked mournfully at Lucinda as he spoke.
“Very well, then.” Lucinda was shaken, but she spoke calmly. “Send her maid to me, please.”
The butler nodded and withdrew. He must know something was amiss, Lucinda realized, otherwise he would not have acceded so readily to such an irregular request.
Mabel came slowly into the room. She was uneasy, and Lucinda could see that she was also worried.
“Now, Mabel,” Lucinda said firmly. “You know this is a serious matter. Where is your mistress?”
“Oh, miss, I promised I wouldn’t tell...”
“You know it is your duty to protect Miss Ryland. She has not considered the consequences of her actions. But we must. Where is she?”
“Oh, miss! She’s gone to dinner with Mr. Stratton and afterwards he’s taking her to one of them gambling places—hells, they call them.”
“A hell?” Lucinda gripped the back of a chair. “Belle has gone to a gambling den?”
“I did tell her that she oughtn’t...”
“I should certainly think you might!” Lucinda took a few agitated steps. “What can Belle be thinking of? Suppose she were to be seen? And tonight, when she is supposed to be at Almack’s. Oh, she puts me quite out of curl!”
Mabel broke into noisy sobs. “She’ll be ruined, miss. Whatever can we do?” she wailed.
Lucinda stopped pacing. “Where is Sir Charles?”
“He’s at St. Albans, miss. He and Mr. Ryland left after luncheon.”
“That wretched mill! And Will with him!” Lucinda pressed her hands to her forehead. “I must think.”
Someone must get Belle back before she sank herself utterly beyond recall. But that someone could not be Lucinda, even if she had any idea where such an establishment could be found. If only Papa were here!
But he wasn’t. She would have to cope on her own. Unless ... Suddenly Lucinda felt quite giddy with relief. Of course, the very person!
“Pray stop that noise, Mabel,” she said as she began to pull on her gloves. “I want you to listen to me. Go upstairs and lay out the clothes your mistress is to wear at Almack’s tonight. She will have to dress very quickly when she returns. And make sure that no one else hears of this adventure.”
She went swiftly back to her own carriage. “Twenty-five Agincourt Crescent,” she told the coachman.
With a sigh she settled against the squabs. Mr. Devereux would help; he would undoubtedly know the hell and what to do. Lucinda did not question her confidence in his ability. Her thoughts were entirely concerned with calculations of time. Would there enough of it? Could Belle be saved in spite of herself?
However, when at last Larrigan opened the door to her, she realized how odd her actions must appear. It was highly unusual for an unaccompanied young lady to visit a gentleman at such an hour.
“I should like to speak with Mr. Devereux, please,” Lucinda said with as much authority as she could muster. She remembered Mr. Bunthorpe’s letter and lifted her chin. “I wish to consult him on ... on the boy who was injured,” she finished in a rush. She knew she did not need to offer an explanation to the butler, but nervousness prompted her to justify her actions.
Larrigan was an excellent butler, and if he considered this visit highly unconventional, he did not permit this to show in his manner. “This way, miss,” he said expressionlessly.
Her face flaming, Lucinda foll
owed him to the library.
“I shall inform Mr. Devereux that you are here,” he said, then bowed and left her there, perched on the edge of an enormous wing-chair and prey to the most lowering fears and misgivings.
Upstairs, Mr. Devereux was preparing for Almack’s. For many years he had not frequented that establishment, but tonight he had promised to see Lady dePoer and Chloris there. Charles had told him that the Grantham party would also be in attendance, so he supposed that perhaps Miss Neville would be with them. He wondered if she had had that gold lace made up yet. With that hair and those eyes the effect should be...
He wrenched his thoughts back to a proper direction. He had paid constant attentions to Chloris and neither she nor her mother could be ignorant of the rumours circulating among the ton. Lord dePoer was away on a diplomatic mission, but his wife must be in daily expectation of a declaration from Mr. Devereux.
It was this declaration which he was discussing with Dowsett. “After all, as my Aunt Melpond has pointed out, a man in my station cannot be so foolish as to hold out for a love-match.”
The valet occupied himself with the sleeves of his master’s shirt. When these were to his satisfaction, he picked up the white satin waistcoat.
Richard held out his arms. “The whole idea of falling in love must, of course, be dismissed as a piece of romantical nonsense and I am long past the age for such folly. Do you not agree, Dowsett?” Directly appealed to, Dowsett produced a sound halfway between a snort and a grunt. Whether it signified agreement or otherwise, it satisfied Mr. Devereux.
“Exactly so. Such notions belong to the melodramas so favoured by Sir Charles. And I cannot envy the Cheltenham tragedies he and Miss Ryland have been enacting. No, the matter must be regarded in a sensible and down-to-earth way.” He sat down to put on the buckle shoes to go with the knee breeches demanded by Almack’s. “After all, Dowsett, you must recall my parents’ marriage. That was supposed to be the love-match of their generation and you do not need me to remind you to what bitterness and recrimination that very soon sank.”
“Your pardon, sir.” Larrigan stood at the door. “But Miss Neville had called.”