by Jo Beverley
He drew her into his arms and she held him close, trying to take comfort from the warmth of his body, his strength, his casual certainties. What a wonder it must be to feel so sure of victory.
“I hate living on this razor edge of deception.”
“Anything is worth it, as long as we’re together.”
She let him reassure her and welcomed his love, but later she lay sleepless beside him, sick with fear.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It took a long day to reach London even on smooth toll roads and in the luxurious traveling chariot. They took rooms at the Swan Inn and Simon sent the servants off to find Hal, carrying a message about Dacre and the picture. Because of his family’s urgent business, he’d left the Canadian papers in Lord Darius’s safekeeping and had no need to deal with those now.
Jancy tried to be calm, but she was keyed up with fear of Dacre being in London and appearing to denounce her. If he planned to take the picture north, her fears were idiotic, but she couldn’t help flinching at every knock on the door. Thank heavens she’d told Simon, though it could still be disaster.
And the Hasketts lurked in the shadows.
As they were finishing their dinner, another knock alarmed her, but Hal entered to say everything was in hand. “The ship’s docked, but we have Dacre under watch. He and his wife are at a hotel. Do you want to confront him?”
“No time,” Simon said. “I gather you knew about Marlowe and Austrey.”
“You knowing would have altered nothing.”
Simon’s lips were tight, but Jancy thought he understood the connection with an amputation, and he nodded. “We would prefer to retrieve that picture.”
“Stephen’s in town. He’ll know how.”
“Our epitome of law and order?”
“Who better to circumvent it? There are Nicholas’s old associates, too.”
“Who?”
Hal laughed. “I keep forgetting that you’ve missed all the action. Don’t worry. Rifling a hotel room is nothing.”
Thievery? Jancy felt she should protest, which was very peculiar. She’d thought they were the upright and she the one on a tilt.
“Who else is here?” Simon asked. “Perhaps we should have a conference.”
But at that moment a sharp rap barely preceded the entrance of a stunning woman swathed in a hooded sapphire blue cloak. It covered all but her face, but only framed her beauty. When she pushed back the hood, she revealed a complex arrangement of white hair. For a moment Jancy felt sure it was a wig, but it clearly wasn’t.
“There you are!” the woman gasped, speaking to Hal as if he were the only person in the room. “Thank God. I was afraid you’d run off again before I found you.”
“Run off?” He spoke as stiffly as he stood.
This must be Blanche, which of course meant white. Hal’s woman, whom Jancy assumed to be disreputable.
The woman’s perfect skin had blushed pink, making her even more breathtaking. “I’m sorry. Don’t be angry with me, Hal. I can’t bear it. Any of it. You’ve won.” She’d moved forward as she spoke and was right before him now, but she didn’t reach to touch. All the same, they could as well be fused together. “These months apart have been the most painful of my life.”
Abruptly, roughly, he pulled her to him with his one arm. “Oh, God, for me, too,” he said, so quietly Jancy could hardly hear, but she could feel it, in her bones and in her heart.
Breathless, she quickly looked away, toward Simon, whom she loved as desperately. Whom she feared to lose. They began to retreat toward the adjoining bedroom.
“No, don’t. We’re sorry.”
They turned to find Hal and Blanche facing them, smiling, blushing. Joyous.
“Our apologies for embarrassing you,” Hal said. “But you may congratulate us.”
Jancy heard a slightly challenging edge.
“You have to tell them first, love,” the woman said. She smiled at Jancy, but her eyes were anxious. “I’m an actress. Some call me the White Dove of Drury Lane. My past . . . I’m not a suitable wife for Hal. The man’s mad.”
Simon went to her, took her white-gloved hand and kissed it. “I’m delighted to meet you at last, but I thought the White Dove never wore colors.”
“What? Oh, the cloak. Disguise.” Her eyes laughed at herself. “Besides, white is so impractical, especially in colder days when the coal soot is thick in the air. I don’t know if Hal told you—”
“He did,” Simon said gently, then added, “Jancy, my love, come and meet Hal’s future wife.”
Jancy went, a little puzzled by the formality, but then she understood. By introducing her to Blanche, he was accepting the actress. She felt engaged in a complex dance whose steps she did not know, but as always, she trusted Simon.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
The White Dove laughed. “Oh, enough of this ma’aming, then. I’m Blanche. Blanche Hardcastle.” She looked to Hal. “Soon to be Blanche Beaumont, I suppose, you idiotic man.”
He, too, raised her hand to his lips. “If you hadn’t surrendered, I’d soon have been insane.”
Love shone between them like a lamp. “It’s to be a quiet wedding, though,” Blanche stated. “No fuss.”
“As long as we are married, I care not one jot.”
“There’ll be difficulties. Don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.” Blanche turned back to Jancy. “I haven’t led the purest life, and that’s to put it mildly. You need to know that.”
Jancy wished then that she could tell Blanche about the Hasketts, but she simply said, “It makes no difference to me. I wish you both every happiness.”
Blanche smiled. “Simon St. Bride is a lucky man.” But then she added to Hal, “What are we to do about your family? Your mother, your sister and her family?”
“If they refuse to accept you, we avoid them, but I have an ace.” Wryly, he touched his empty sleeve. “They’ll approve almost anything to ease my tragic plight.”
Clearly his family hadn’t reacted well to his injury, but Jancy thought there was a philosophy lesson in this somewhere—that everything had two sides, and suffering could bring blessings to compensate. It was too tangled for her tired mind.
“We must want to get to bed,” Hal said, then colored slightly. He’d been speaking his own thoughts and his arm around Blanche was eloquent, as was the angle of her body to his.
“Yes,” Simon said, laughter beneath his words. “I wish we could stay to celebrate but I need to get home.”
“Don’t worry about Dacre. . . .”
Another knock interrupted, and whoever it was waited to be admitted. Simon opened the door to reveal a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman.
“Mr. Simon,” he said. “It’s good to see you safe home.” All the same, he did not smile.
“Grilling. Come in.”
Introductions were made. Mr. Grilling was the St. Bride family’s London solicitor. His well-schooled features almost betrayed him when he was introduced to Blanche, especially as Major Beaumont’s betrothed, but he had other matters on his mind.
“I regret to inform you, sir, that I received news this afternoon that Lord Austrey’s state has worsened. To be blunt, he could already be dead.”
“No hope?” Simon asked.
“God’s power is inifite, sir, but . . . no.”
Simon sighed and quizzed the solicitor for news. When the man left, he turned to Jancy. “Can you bear to push on a little farther tonight? If we do, we can probably reach Brideswell tomorrow.”
Jancy longed for a bed, but she agreed. They left all their other concerns in Hal’s hands, and soon they were hurtling north by the light of the moon. They arrived at Ware exhausted and fell straight to sleep, and were off again at first light racing north, then east to Louth, and farther east toward the sea.
Darkness had fallen by the time they passed through the winding streets of Monkton St. Brides, so Jancy saw little more than shadows and candlelit windows. She
could tell when they reached Brideswell only by the chaise slowing to turn under an arch.
In her light-headed, exhausted state, Simon’s home seemed only an irregular spread of lights, but the chaise had barely stopped before he was out of the carriage. He turned to hand her down, and by the carriage lights, she saw his smile. No matter what news awaited, he was home.
By the time they reached the door it was open, spilling light and people.
“Simon!” a young woman shouted and threw herself into his arms. The dark hair flashing red told Jancy this was Mara.
Then he was in a woman’s arms—his mother. Jancy was soon in the same vigorous embrace. “So pretty!” his mother declared, beaming at her. “Welcome, welcome, though it’s a terrible time.” She turned to Simon as she steered them inside. “You know?”
“Yes.”
There was no time for more as a large old hall filled with people pouring out of rooms, down stairs, from corridors. A hive indeed. The throng was of all ages, including a wide-eyed youngster in a nightshirt and a babe in arms. Servants, too. All, it appeared, to be hugged or at least shaken hands with, all bewilderingly introduced.
Simon’s father had been organizing luggage, but now he was there, shaking his oldest son’s hand and then taking him into his arms. He was a tall, fit man who looked so much like Simon apart from the hair that Jancy knew she saw him in thirty years or so. No wonder Simon didn’t expect to inherit anything soon.
Simon’s mother was youthful, too, in her trimness and energy, with excellent skin and a head of thick brown hair. Even the older people—Simon’s paternal grandmother and a great-uncle, if she had it right—looked good for another decade or two.
Perhaps all that energy sapped hers. She felt the air thin and darkness gather. She tried to stagger to a chair, but the next thing she knew, she was being carried upstairs by Simon. “Oh, I’m sorry. I can walk.”
“Don’t be a goose. I’m the one who’s sorry. Dragging you on such a journey. Hush now, here we are.”
Someone with a candle opened a door, and then she was on a soft bed. The candle bearer was his mother, looking cross—at him. “Foolish boy. No consideration. Go away and let me take care of my new daughter.”
Jancy wanted to cry to him to stay, but with a rueful look, he obeyed.
“I know, I know,” said Mrs. St. Bride, touching Jancy’s hair. “We’re a terrifying lot, particularly to those not used to us. But there’s no vice in us. We don’t bite. What do you say to getting right into bed? I’ll have a little supper prepared for you, and after a good night’s sleep, we’ll get to know each other.”
With a knock, two beaming maids carried in warming pans. Another followed with her valise.
Jancy climbed off the bed so it could be warmed and took off her outer clothing. Once the maids left, she allowed her mother-in-law to help her undress, too exhausted to even think about privacy or washing. Once in bed, she fell fast asleep.
Simon endured his mother’s scold with delight and teased her out of it with a kiss, sharing a smile with his father. It was so wonderful to be home that he couldn’t imagine how he’d endured to be far away for so long. Though he knew it was illogical, he felt that nothing terrible could happen as long as he was at Brideswell.
“And I suppose you haven’t eaten yet,” his mother concluded, as if that was his fault, too, and left for the kitchen.
The throng had been dismissed, even the reluctant children, who were so grown he hardly recognized them. Simon willingly let his father draw him away to his cluttered study and gave a brief version of recent events, leaving out Jancy’s confusing identity and the missing picture.
His father was engaged in the complex business of lighting a clay pipe. “Perhaps you needn’t tell her about the duel just now.”
“Mother? Never, if you wish.”
“Lord, no. If you kept it entirely from her, she’d skin us both when she found out.” He fixed Simon with a searching look. “You are fully recovered, my boy?”
“Completely. Thanks to Jancy.”
“Pretty name, that. Perhaps she’s with child. Fainting, I mean.”
“Possible, of course, but only recently if so.”
For some reason, the subject embarrassed, as if his parents shouldn’t know that he’d bedded a woman. It was wonderful to be home.
He was nearly as exhausted as Jancy, however, and soon excused himself. It was strange to join a wife in his old bed, but perfect, especially with her special woodland smell mixing with all that was home. He lay close to her warmth and fell instantly asleep.
He woke early, with only gray dawn hinted through the curtains. The air in the bedroom was nippy, but that, too, was a familiarity of his youth. Perhaps he should build a fire to warm the room for Jancy, but she was no hothouse bloom.
She was lying with her back to him, the covers pulled up high. He eased closer and brushed a kiss against her hair, but lightly, so as not to wake her.
She turned, however, blinking but smiling. “Good morning.”
He smiled back. “It’s hardly that yet. Go back to sleep.”
She yawned and stretched. “No, I’m awake.” Looking into his eyes, she asked, “How is everything?”
He sighed and settled on his back. “All in good cheer, but it’s an illusion. Marlowe smolders beneath Brideswell like a lit fuse, but they don’t talk about it. In the end I asked for the latest news. Father said Austrey was poorly and changed the subject.”
She moved closer and put an arm over him, stroking, comforting.
“My father is a wonderful man,” he said, covering her tender hand with his own, “and strong in many ways. He doesn’t avoid problems.”
“So this shows how difficult it is for him,” she said.
“Yes. Leaving Brideswell has to be close to unthinkable.”
“So why do it? I gather he has no choice about becoming earl, but he can still choose where to live, can’t he?”
“Strictly speaking, but the earldom brings many obligations. A seat in Parliament, an honorary position at court, and such. But above all, it brings Marlowe. The house. That’s its complete name. Just Marlowe. He’ll feel duty bound to live there at least half the year.”
“But why?”
He dropped a kiss on her temple. “As I said, duty. It’s a great house with extensive property attached. It’s lifeblood to hundreds, even thousands, from the lowest servants to powerful stewards, from local farmers to a host of businessmen. There are farms, villages, vicarages, mills. Even the paupers suffer without personal interest from a local magnate. An empty house is a blight on a whole area.”
“Then lease it.”
“Good God, no.”
He felt her flinch as she said, “I’m sorry.”
He held her close. “No, love, it would be the sensible thing, but it can’t be done. Not a place like Marlowe. As well suggest the Duke of Devonshire lease Chatsworth. And besides, tenants never take the same care as a conscientious owner.”
“So the family will have to move backward and forward?”
“I suppose so. Or perhaps just my parents. The youngsters should have the life I had here, with half a county as a playground and every soul for miles around a friend or relative.”
“It sounds wonderful, but better than being with their parents? Surely the area around Marlowe is pleasant, too.”
The area around Marlowe was as indescribable as Brideswell, so Simon didn’t try. “Possibly. I suppose it will sort itself out, but it’s going to be a painful mess, whatever is arranged.”
He pulled Jancy closer into his arms, resting his head against hers. “Thank heavens for you, my love. You are my rock and my strength.”
Her arms tightened around him. “I don’t know how that can be when you are my blood and bones, but I thank God. What’s the matter?”
He’d tensed to listen. “A galloping horse.”
“It could be anything.”
“At this hour?” He climbed out of bed and pu
lled on essential clothing.
She followed. “Go on. I’ll be down as soon as possible.”
He left in just shirt and breeches and knew as soon as he started downstairs that he was right. The bad news hung in the very air.
His parents were in the family parlor, sitting on a sofa in their nightwear, holding hands. Almost like children, he thought. A liveried groom was standing there, looking at a loss.
“The news?” he asked the man, who looked relieved to turn his attention to him.
“Viscount Austrey died at ten last night, sir. The earl’s in a very bad way. Lady Austrey sends to ask that Mr. St. Bride come to Marlowe to take charge of matters.”
Simon wanted to say that if Austrey had been failing for months, there was no urgency now, but of course Cousin Dorothy needed support. Who better than the man who would soon own Marlowe and all it entailed? Putting it off wouldn’t change anything.
But he said to his father, “Would you like me to go? You can follow.”
His father seemed to twitch to life, or perhaps shudder. “No, my boy. Or rather yes, if you feel able to accompany me, I would appreciate that, but I must go. Poor Dorothy must be very low.” He patted his wife’s hand. “You stay here, my love. I know you can take care of everything.”
Simon heard footsteps but knew before he turned that it was Jancy. She was in one of her plain York gowns, her hair loose down her back, her eyes clear and alert.
He held out his hand and she took it. “I’m going with Father to Marlowe to help Austrey’s widow. It seems likely that the earl will follow his son soon.”
“Can I come with you?”
Breath caught with longing, but he said, “I’ve dragged you around enough. Stay here and rest awhile.”
“I’m perfectly rested and I want to come with you.” But then she added, “Unless there’s some reason that I shouldn’t . . .”
“No, of course not. But we must leave after a hasty breakfast.”
She nodded. “Then I must pack.” She left with a briskness that reminded him wonderfully of his mother.
A cleared throat reminded him of the rest of the world. He turned to see his mother smiling. “You chose well, Simon. There’s a girl with her feet on the ground and strength enough to be a good wife and mother. It’s a delight, too, to see you starry-eyed over her.”