by Mary Brendan
‘I should like to hear more about it, too!’ Louise giggled. ‘I imagine the groom she ran off with was terribly handsome and the uncle who saved her dreadfully strict.’
Joan smiled quite wistfully. ‘Perhaps we may find out,’ she said.
* * *
‘Your aunt takes a delight in organising things, doesn’t she?’ Cecilia frowned. ‘She was busy with Lady Regan earlier, planning our timetable for tomorrow. We are to go to a museum and then for a drive in the park, I believe.’
‘Are we?’ Joan gave her companion a smile, though feeling miffed that Dorothea had seen fit to make arrangements without consulting her.
‘Never fear...I shall say I’ve got a migraine so you can escape.’ Cecilia sounded glum. ‘My patroness is trying to surround me with ladies of unblemished character in the hope that some of their goodness might rub off on me.’
‘I’ve no intention of escaping because I’m sure we shall have a nice time,’ Joan did want to get to know Cecilia better, but none the less felt a fraud for tacitly claiming a spotless reputation. If a hint of what she’d recently been up to slipped out, she’d be ejected from this elegant salon quicker than would Cecilia.
‘Are you just pretending to be making friends with me?’ Cecilia laid a card, pouting when Maude smiled apologetically, then trumped it with the King of Hearts.
‘I think we could very easily become friends,’ Joan returned truthfully. She deliberately played a bad hand, hoping to also go out of the game. Seated around the baize-topped table were a number of Lady Regan’s middle-aged guests and there’d been no real opportunity for the two younger ladies to chat privately. Joan was waiting for an opening in their conversation that might allow her to mention Cecilia’s uncle. Thereafter some clues might emerge as to why Bertha Denby and Saul Stokes had plotted against him.
‘Shall we peruse the bookshelves and find a suitably erudite tome to pore over while we chat?’ Joan gave a subtle wink and it had the required effect of cheering Cecilia up.
‘Oh, yes, let’s; I should like to stretch my legs and have a gossip.’ Cecilia pushed back her chair.
‘It is a shame Miss Finch is unwell and couldn’t come.’ Cecilia flicked the pages of an atlas she’d just slid from a mahogany shelf.
‘She has a very sore throat,’ Joan explained, feeling guilty that she hadn’t suffered a bad cold after her drenching, but had spread the germs to Louise.
‘Mr Laurenson’s friend liked Miss Finch, didn’t he?’ Cecilia peeked from beneath her lashes at Joan.
‘I believe they enjoyed dancing together,’ Joan replied neutrally, pondering on how to get the information she wanted without seeming inquisitive.
‘I enjoyed dancing with Henry,’ Cecilia burst out in a whisper. ‘Oh, he asked me to call him Henry,’ she explained, having read Joan’s expression.
‘But perhaps you should not...just yet,’ Joan advised gently. ‘If a lady and gentleman become too familiar too soon, it often leads to trouble.’ Joan wondered what on earth Henry Laurenson had been thinking to encourage such behaviour. Then she remembered what her stepmother had said about Cecilia attracting the wrong sort of admirers. Joan hadn’t heard rumours that Henry was in the market for a wife, but she had seen him sauntering along Regent Street with a member of the petticoat set on his arm.
Joan glanced at their hostess, seated on a velvet sofa. Lady Regan was flanked on one side by Dorothea and on the other by a dowager viscountess. Today, sedately sipping tea, they looked harmless enough, but beneath their soft kid gloves were claws that could sharpen in an instant. Bertha Denby seemed content to perch on an armchair close by, although she was keeping a close eye on her daughter. Thankfully Saul Stokes was absent from the all-female gathering.
‘I don’t care what people think about us,’ Cecilia muttered. ‘I like Henry very much and he called me a beguiling beauty. He doesn’t care about my bad reputation.’
Joan glanced swiftly at Cecilia. ‘You told him you’d run away?’ she rattled off in an aghast whisper.
‘I did...but I didn’t need to...he already knew.’ Cecilia’s lips twitched in a smile. ‘You know I’m ruined, too. Everybody does...they just pretend otherwise because Lord and Lady Regan give us their support.’
About to fib and deny knowing about the scandal, Joan realised she’d already let the truth roll off her tongue in an unguarded moment. ‘I’d heard a tale about an aborted elopement,’ she admitted very quietly.
Cecilia began turning pages again, her mouth twisting bitterly. ‘I did love Robbie and thought I’d made good my escape, but he had to spoil it for us.’
‘He?’ Joan echoed. Her heartbeat quickened in anticipation of a mention of Drew Rockleigh.
‘My guardian,’ Cecilia muttered.
‘I expect your mother had your best interests at heart.’
‘She only cares about herself.’ Cecilia darted a stinging look Bertha’s way.
‘Your uncle caught up with you, I believe?’ Joan wanted to discover what Rockleigh’s part in it all had been before Bertha joined them. On turning her head, she’d noticed the woman staring at them, then purposefully depositing her cup and saucer on the table as though about to gain her feet.
‘I certainly tested his patience that day.’ Cecilia sighed.
‘You like him even though he brought you back?’ Joan was unable to contain her surprise.
‘Mmm...ever since Papa died Uncle Drew has been generous and kind. He’s chastised me on occasions, but I know I’ve deserved it. I certainly did when I ran off. But I don’t see my uncle now.’
‘Why not?’
Cecilia seemed to be on the point of answering, but instead pressed her lips together, her cheeks glowing.
‘You two young ladies seem to have a lot to chat about.’ Bertha had sidled up quite quickly and placed a hand on her daughter’s arm.
‘We’ve been talking about our excursion tomorrow,’ Joan smoothly interjected. Though she was itching to tell Drew’s odious sister what she thought of her she forced a placid smile to her lips.
‘Let’s hope the weather is clement.’ Bertha glanced at the drizzle spattering the window. ‘Lady Regan has said we may use her splendid landau if it is fine...’ Her voice faded away as the door opened and their host ambled in.
Joan noted the immediate change in mother and daughter brought about by Lord Regan’s appearance. The man’s wife acknowledged him from the sofa with a dip of her turban, but he ignored her and started towards the trio of ladies by the bookshelves.
‘Capital to see you, m’dear.’ Bertram Regan clasped Cecilia’s fingers and gave them a clumsy shake. He then turned his beam on Mrs Denby, who seemed better pleased to have his attention.
‘How’s the gel settling in with her new friends?’ he asked, giving Joan a glance. ‘You’re Thornley’s daughter, aren’t you?’
‘I am, sir.’ Joan dipped him a polite bob.
‘Good choice...good choice, indeed,’ Lord Regan praised, patting Mrs Denby’s arm. ‘She’s got nice pedigree and is just the ticket to be dancing attendance on little Cecilia.’
Joan felt amused rather than annoyed on hearing that. But both Little Cecilia and her mother fidgeted uncomfortably at their host’s implication that a duke’s daughter might toady to a woman of inferior age and rank.
‘The rain has stopped—shall we stroll on the terrace for a breath of air?’ Joan suggested, hoping for another chance to get Cecilia alone so they could resume their talk. From her new friend’s expression she gleaned that Cecilia would like nothing better.
‘Cecilia has yet to sit with Lady Regan before we leave. Come...let us join her for a while. You must let her ladyship know how greatly you appreciate having the use of her landau.’ Bertha linked arms with her daughter.
Looking disappointed, Cecilia allowed her mother t
o steer her away, Lord Regan trailing in their wake like a faithful lackey.
* * *
‘Stranger and stranger, don’t you think?’ Maude muttered with a frown. ‘I know Dorothea told us that Lord Regan and Mr Stokes are acquainted, but I think his lordship’s show of favouritism to the man’s ward was too much. What do you make of it?’
‘I’m not exactly sure what to make of it,’ Joan replied, gazing through the window of the coach as they rattled on their way home, having left the gathering.
But of something Joan was certain: she and Maude were not alone in their confusion, or their suspicions, about an old roué paying attention to a pretty young blonde. The other ladies present had also noticed it while pretending not to.
Lady Regan’s reaction to her husband’s fawning over the Denby women had also been closely monitored. If their hostess had been annoyed about her spouse’s behaviour, she’d kept it concealed and graciously allowed mother and daughter to sit either side of her on the sofa. Lord Regan had quit the room not long after entering it without bothering to pass the time of day with anybody else present, including the woman he’d married.
‘I could hazard a guess as to what it’s all about, but I’d best not air such thoughts,’ Maude rumbled darkly.
‘Perhaps we are reading too much into it. Lord Regan might simply want to help his friend Stokes settle Cecilia.’ Joan tried to sound convincing.
Maude gave her stepdaughter an old-fashioned look. ‘It’s not settling the chit the old lecher’s keen on, if you ask me,’ she blurted. ‘Oh, fiddlesticks.’ Maude waggled a hand. ‘You’re not an idiot or a child and I’ll not treat you as either. You’re older than my Verity was when she got married and I discussed such things with her, Fiona, too, of course.’ Maude paused. ‘You may tell me to be quiet at any time if I embarrass you, Joan. But in my opinion it is cruel for a mother to allow her girls to embark on adult life with no inkling of what...or who...might ambush them.’ Maude gazed earnestly into her stepdaughter’s limpid grey eyes. ‘I know I can never replace your own mama, my dear, but I feel as close to you as I do to my own children, so may I stop beating about the bush and talk plainly to you, woman to woman?’
‘Please do, ma’am.’ Joan’s smile held warmth and gratitude. ‘I want to be treated as an equal rather than be wrapped in tissue as though I might break, as Papa tends to do to me.’ A wry little chuckle preceded, ‘I promise not to have a fit of the vapours either if you tell me that gentlemen are not always honourable when pursuing ladies they fancy.’
Maude leaned closer and clasped Joan’s fingers. ‘Your papa means well; he dotes on you and would protect you from all harm. But, alas, we cannot keep our offspring in our pockets out of harm’s way. We must prepare them for the world and the villains in it.’ She sighed. ‘That’s enough of my blathering; but I’d like it if in future you’d call me Mama...only if you want to, of course. It’s so much nicer than ma’am.’ Maude raised her stepdaughter’s fingers, fondly brushing them against her cheek before letting them go. ‘Now that’s out of the way, let’s have that gossip.’ Maude settled back against the upholstery. ‘In my opinion, Lord Regan has his eye on his next conquest and is after Cecilia under his wife’s nose, and perhaps with her blessing.’
‘That had occurred to me, too,’ Joan admitted. ‘But surely her mother and guardian would not be complicit in it, especially as it will eventually come out. Cecilia will then be a notorious demi-rep, barred from polite society.’
Maude shrugged. ‘It’s not unheard of for a rich man to flaunt his mistress or even set up a ménage à trois with her and his wife. And it’s quite common practice for a sullied young woman to be found a rich protector so the family might wash their hands of her.’ Maude frowned. ‘Stokes might have made any offer from Lord Regan conditional on her retaining her good name. If they were to marry her off, Cecilia would continue to be accepted. Many a penniless fop would take her and turn a blind eye to her lover if paid well enough to do so.’
‘I doubt Cecilia will agree to any of it,’ Joan announced flatly. ‘She has her own mind and is still smitten with Henry Laurenson.’
‘Is she, indeed?’ Maude’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, that young man is no penniless fop and, though he might act the clown on occasion, I doubt he’d take kindly to being cuckolded by a fellow old enough to be his grandfather.’
‘It is possible his lordship might have a philanthropic motive.’
‘Do you think so?’ Maude asked.
The ladies exchanged a dubious look, then fell quiet, gazing out of the windows as the coach rattled on its way through the grey damp streets of Mayfair.
When they alighted from their transport in Upper Brook Street thoughts of Drew Rockleigh again occupied the forefront of Joan’s mind. What would he make of the theory that Lord Regan had an unhealthy interest in his niece? Cecilia had spoken warmly of her uncle and if Drew returned that fondness, he would be sure to hate the idea of his niece becoming an old man’s mistress.
Had Joan been more alert to her surroundings she might have noticed that she was being watched. Standing on the opposite side of the road was a fellow with a hat tipped low over his eyes and his shoulders hunched up to his ears.
From beneath the beaver’s brim the gentleman observed the two women ascend the steps of the Duke of Thornley’s mansion then disappeared into the house. A moment later he gleefully rubbed together his palms with a satisfied grin.
Chapter Ten
The combatants circled one another, squinting against the setting sun as their dodging and feinting turned them towards the west. The gypsy lunged forward, swiping sweat from his eyes with one meaty fist while the other lashed out. He was driven back by a jab from his opponent, but no second blow capitalised on the first and the stocky Romany managed to shake himself awake and deliver a right hook. It appeared to fell the Squire; he stayed down on one knee despite raucous shouts from the crowd urging him to get up and fight.
But he’d no intention of doing that and let the referee count him out.
‘Was the sun blinding you? Or are you losing your touch, do you think? I’ve not seen you go down so quickly before.’
‘Perhaps I am past my peak at this game,’ Drew replied, wincing as Constance dabbed at his cut face with a wet rag.
‘Benny said he’d like to crack as many heads as you do.’ Constance gave a cheerful smile while dunking the bloodied cloth in the bucket of water beside her, then wringing it out.
‘Your brother would do better to forget about boxing and get himself a job on the docks.’ Drew knew that Benny Cook idolised him and was proud that his sister was a prize fighter’s concubine. The lad would often badger him for a sparring session on the cobbles outside the Cock and Hen pub.
‘Benny doesn’t want to be a stevedore; my little brother likes easy pickings.’ Constance chuckled wryly. ‘Out of the three of us it was only my sister wanted regular work on the docks. Sonia, God rest her, did earn a pretty penny at it, too. For the good it did her!’
Drew removed his paramour’s hand from his cheek as her storytelling caused her to become over-enthusiastic in cleaning his wounds. Constance had been his mistress for several months and though he was about to put her off he wanted to do so kindly. She was an amiable companion and an adequate lover. He also appreciated her artless character and the fact that she slept with him because she liked him rather than for the cash in his pockets.
Wisely, Constance Cook hadn’t joined her elder sister, servicing seaman in taverns along the Thames. It was a dangerous profession: disease and violence were never far away from a popular harlot mixing with rough trade. Two years ago Sonia had got between two navvies fighting over her and had been stabbed to death at the age of nineteen, the age Constance was now.
The Romany came over to shake Drew’s hand. As the men clashed eyes Drew saw that the victor suspected th
e fight had been thrown. But the bulging purse was gripped tight in the fellow’s torn fingers and he sauntered off with his entourage, enjoying his shoddy fame. It stuck in Drew’s craw that he’d let a second-rate boxer get the better of him, but he wanted it to appear that his withdrawal from the neighbourhood, and the sport, was due to his loss of form rather than let people speculate.
The spectators started to disperse, leaving just Barnaby Smith, the boxing agent, dismantling the ropes of the makeshift ring. Intermittently he glared over at the loser of the bout, muttering beneath his breath about the Squire’s inexplicably bad technique.
Drew was sitting on the low wall outside the Cock and Hen tavern while suffering his mistress’s attempts at patching him up. Constance had been working at the hostelry since the age of fourteen, but she seemed in no hurry to get to her job now the contest was over. People made thirsty from bellowing their advice at the boxers had repaired to the tavern to pack the saloon bar. The harassed landlord glared at Constance from the doorway, but his employee simply tossed her untidy blonde curls and turned away. The landlord, in common with everybody else in the neighbourhood, knew that the young woman had the Squire’s protection. While she retained it Charlie Clarke was chary of upsetting her...or him.
‘I hope you’re not badly hurt after that fight, Mr Rockleigh.’
Drew got to his feet as Vincent Walters approached, having just emerged from a cottage across the square.
‘I’m well enough, Vicar, thank you for your concern.’
The last time they’d spoken in Hyde Park their exchange had been prickly, but Vincent bore no grudges. ‘It must be disappointing for you to get nothing but bruises for your trouble.’
Drew shrugged easily. ‘It’s the nature of the business. I’ve had a good run at it.’
‘How is Old Blackie, Vicar?’ Constance referred to the ancient blacksmith who still lived at his redundant forge.
‘He’s rallied well, but the Lord only knows for how much longer he can find the strength to draw breath.’ Vincent had been comforting the gravely ill fellow that afternoon. Old Blackie, as he was nicknamed, had suffered a nasty attack that had robbed him of full mobility and yet still he clung determinedly to life.