“What weel you do, mademoiselle?”
“I suppose I shall have to go and collect it myself,” Lydia grumbled.
The house was in an uproar over her leaving. Henry had disappeared with the Dowager Duchess to Bond Street, where she insisted she had to purchase several articles for Lydia before she departed. Skeins of ribbon, bonnets, a book on the continent; Lydia had insisted that she would manage without, but the Duchess ignored her.
Now she was stuck with no means of getting to Covent Garden, but at least she could leave the house without raising any suspicions.
“If my Aunt returns, will you tell her I’m napping?” Lydia asked, as she hurriedly went to her wardrobe to fetch a shawl for the journey.
“Alors, mademoiselle, you cannot go alone.”
Marguerite’s protests fell on deaf ears, for Lydia was halfway out the door by the time she finished speaking.
“I must get the portrait before I leave,” Lydia called, taking the stairs in twos in her hurry to leave. To leave London without the miniature seemed an ill omen, and Lydia was determined to have it back in her possession. Lydia had to walk to Grosnover Square before she could find a hackney to hail.
“Covent Garden, sir,” she said, passing the driver a shilling, “The road where the Duck and Cup Inn is situated.”
“’Tis a rough part of town that, m’am,” the driver said with concern. His cheeks were pink, and he smelled lightly of gin - as many hackney drivers were wont to - but his eyes were kind, and the man seemed genuinely worried for her safety.
“I have arranged to visit a former servant there, sir,” Lydia lied on the spot, “They have taken ill, but I can assure you my safety is assured.”
“Ain’t you a kind soul, m’am,” the driver tipped his hat, and opened the door for Lydia to jump in. As the streets passed by, Lydia pulled back the curtain on the window so that she could take one last look at London town. The drive took her past New Bond Street and the Burlington Gardens, and Lydia tried to commit all the buildings to memory, for there would be nothing as splendid to look at when she returned to Galway.
The streets surrounding Covent Garden were busy with afternoon traffic, farmers carts, milk trolleys, beggars, thieves, and whores, all swamped the cobblestone roads.
“It’s here you be wantin’ to stop m’am,” the driver called, pulling the hackney to a halt.
“My thanks, sir,” Lydia said, clambering out and throwing the shawl over her head in a makeshift scarf. She waved away the change that the driver offered her, and he tipped his hat once more and called her a saint.
I’ll have to tell Marguerite I was canonized, Lydia thought wryly, as she slipped off the main thoroughfare and down the dank lane to where Carmen lived.
The lane smelled of damp, urine and rotting garbage, and Lydia clutched the scarf to her nose in an attempt to preserve her olfactory senses. She had not noticed on her previous visits, just how miserable the road truly was. Previously she had thought the poverty romantic, as she excitedly imagined all that Carmen might reveal to her. Now, in the squalid lane, where a drunk half asleep or half inebriated, took up most of the footpath, she saw that she had been wrong. There was nothing remotely romantic about the place, and Carmen, with her kohl rimmed eyes and red scarf, was just as desperately poor as the other inhabitants. Poor enough to exploit a person’s grief, be it by peddling false lies or withholding a precious object. Lydia tried, but could not condemn her - if she was as poor, she would probably resort to worse.
“It’s you.”
Carmen opened the door to Lady Beaufort after just one knock, ushering her into the grey walled hallway. The gypsy stuck her head out, to peer left and right down the laneway, before she closed the door again.
“I’ve come for my portrait,” Lydia said crisply, trying to suppress the old feelings of nervous excitement that Carmen had always elicited.
“I know,” the gypsy took a puff off her pipe and casually exhaled billowing smoke, which filled the small, cramped hallway. “It’s inside.”
She led Lydia into her small home, where candles and incense burned, and the glittering scarves that draped the walls and windows glinted in the half light. It was cold and eerie, and Lydia could not recall why this place had held such a morbid fascination for her.
“Five pound,” the Gypsy said once Lydia was safely inside the room.
“Not before I see the portrait,” Lydia countered. She had no faith left in Carmen, or the rest of the world for that matter. Trust was too easily trampled upon.
“Eager ain’t you?” Carmen said, her eyes on the door. She heaved a great sigh, hitched up her skirts and took a seat at the small round table, where she had read Lydia’s hand so many times.
“Sit down for a minute,” the old woman said, her eyes still shifting from Lydia to the door. “I’ll give you a reading Lady Beaufort, for old time’s sake.”
Lydia frowned; she had always believed that Carmen had not known her true identity, and now here she was addressing her formally, and watching the door like she expected someone to burst in.
“I’d really rather just get my portrait and leave,” Lydia said, bestowing an icy glare on the gypsy. Fear and nervousness were playing havoc with her heartbeat, which was galloping in her chest like a stallion at Newmarket.
“Fine,” the Gypsy stood, and shuffled across the room to a rather large trunk in the corner. “It’s in ‘ere somewhere.”
Carmen’s voice, which had always had a hint of a strange accent, had now taken on a decidedly East End twang. The woman knelt on the worn carpet, as she rummaged through the trunk, extracting an assortment of odds and ends as she searched for the portrait.
“It’s ‘ere somewhere,” Carmen said, in a tone that had taken on a forced air of innocence. Suddenly Lydia became very, very afraid. How stupid she had been - the Gypsy no more had her portrait than she did - and her eyes were on the door because she was expecting someone. And that someone probably had plans for Lady Beaufort, who to the Gypsy was probably worth a fortune in ransom money.
Slowly, so as not to make a sound, Lydia began to back toward the door, keeping an eye on the Gypsy as she rummaged for the portrait that she would never find. Lydia’s breath was coming in short, shallow bursts and her feet felt like lead blocks as she moved. Her hand was upon the doorknob, ready to turn it, when someone turned it from the other side, causing her to squeak in alarm.
The door pushed open, sending Lydia flying, and she grasped at the silk drapes as she fell, pulling a sizable amount of them down with her, as she landed on the floor.
“My walls,” the Gypsy sounded aggrieved, “Look what she’s done to my walls, you’ll be paying for that.”
“All in good time woman,” a familiar voice said, from above Lydia’s head, “When we return from Gretna Green, I shall pay everything I owe.”
Zitelli.
Lydia groaned, she had bumped her head during the fall, and the sound of the Italian’s voice was only adding to her pain.
“What’s the matter my sweet?” Zitelli walked over to where she lay, and looked down, “Are you not happy to see me?”
“No,” Lydia groaned, “I am, in fact, at this point in time, insanely jealous of all the people who have never met you. How happy their lives must be.”
“Ha,” the Count gave a booming, sarcastic laugh, and Lydia could see that in his hand he held a pistol. He wore the same clothes that he had worn the day before, except now they were heavily wrinkled and stained. His dark hair looked unwashed and overnight he had grown a rather impressive beard of black stubble. He had the look of a madman, which, Lydia reflected on her current situation, he probably was.
“Up, funny lady,” the Count ordered angrily, brandishing the pistol as he gestured for her to stand.
“No need for violence, Mr. Zitelli,” Carmen whispered in an accent that was pure St. Giles’, he false persona now well and truly vanished. The supposed Gypsy cast Lydia a worried glance, to which Lydia glared back at he
r sourly. It was a bit late for the woman to decide she was concerned about her safety.
“Never fear,” Zitelli said, with some attempt at a chivalrous tone, “I shan’t harm a hair on my lady’s head. I need her alive if I am to marry her.”
Lydia, who had just clambered to her feet, went light headed at his words.
“We discussed this yesterday,” she snapped at the Count, holding the table for support, “I would rather lick the floor of a stable than marry you.”
“My sentiments about you are much the same, Lady Beaufort,” the Count said with a mocking smile, “I do not care to have a crazy wife, that people laugh and gossip about, but I do care for your dowry.”
Lydia’s mouth opened and closed as she digested his accusation of being crazy, it was most insulting coming from a man who had clearly lost all his marbles.
“You-you-you,” she stuttered angrily, rage overcoming her ability to speak.
“Yes,” Zitelli looked down at his nails, examining them boredly for dirt. “I am an awful, awful man. I know. But keep hold of your tongue Lady Lydia, for soon I shall be your husband and I will have no qualms about throwing you into Bedlam. Who would blame me, for your eccentricities have caused enough scandals.”
Tired of speaking, the Count grabbed Lydia’s elbow, his fingers digging sharply into her soft skin, and began dragging her toward the open door.
“Hey,” Carmen called, and for a moment Lydia knew hope, “What about my money?”
Lydia’s burgeoning hope withered and died at the Gypsy’s words.
“I told you woman,” Zitelli snarled, eager to be away with his hostage, “I shall pay you when I return.”
“You lying blaggard,” Carmen hissed, her Kohl rimmed eyes narrowed in annoyance.
“Well you’re a bigger idiot for selling me to him without getting your payment upfront,” Lydia sniffed; honestly how could the woman have been so stupid. “I would have paid you double what he’s promised you for a spell or a curse to keep the blighter away.”
Carmen’s mouth opened and closed in shock, in a manner that brought to mind a fish out of water. Lydia could see the cogs in her brain whirring to life, as Carmen tried to work out if it wasn’t yet too late to make a few extra shillings off the Lady.
“Enough,” Zitelli snarled, and dragged Lydia - who was protesting and struggling enthusiastically - out of the door, and into the dank lane way where a carriage with four horses was waiting.
“Where are you taking me?” she gasped, as Zitelli forced her bodily into the compartment of the carriage, pistol loaded and pointed at her chest.
“I told you,” the Count gave a smile, that could only be described as deranged, and then he voiced what sounded to Lydia like the worst threat imaginable. “To Gretna Green, Lady Beaufort. I’m going to make you my Countess.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Wilkes,” Gabriel roared as he strode into his bedchamber, nearly taking the door off its hinges in his urgency. “Where’s my Flintlock?”
“In the top drawer of your dresser, my Lord,” his valet, who was neatly folding one of his many cravats, said sounding terribly bored by his master’s theatrical outburst.
“Good, good,” Gabe muttered, his dramatics slightly muted by Wilkes’ obvious ennui.
Gabe strode across the carpet to his dresser, pulled open the top drawer and there indeed was his pistol. A handsome double-barrelled weapon, it bore the family crest on either side of the silver grip. Gabe grabbed the gun, but as he went to close the drawer a small object glinted, catching the light and his eye.
“What’s this still doing here?” Gabe asked with shock, lifting Lydia’s silver cased miniature up and waving it at the valet. “I thought I asked you to send this on to Lady Beaufort?”
“No,” Wilkes frowned, “You said you wanted the gift sent over, not that old thing.”
“I distinctly said the items in the drawer, not the gift in the drawer,” Gabriel stuttered, then gave up. This was no time for semantics.
“My apologies,” Wilkes muttered churlishly, “But it looks rather old, not the type of thing a man would send to a Lady, and besides - it clearly has some sort of sentimental value. I thought that was why you were hiding it away, and not throwing it out like any sane person would.”
“Why on earth would you think a portrait of Lord Byron held any sentimental value to me?” Gabe asked, incredulously; the man had dressed him for over a decade, not once had Sutherland ever mentioned poetry.
“But it’s not,” Wilkes looked confused, “It’s not a portrait of Lord Byron, my Lord. It’s a portrait of a woman and her children. I thought perhaps she was a relative…”
“What?”
Disbelieving his valet’s words Gabe opened the silver case, then had to sit down on his bed from the shock of what he saw. It was not a portrait of Lord Byron, as Wilkes had so astutely observed, it was in fact a depiction of a dark-haired woman and her three daughters. Each little violet eyed girl depicted was so alike, that Gabe could not tell which one was Lydia. For he knew, the sick feeling in his stomach confirmed it, that one of the little girls in the portrait was Lady Lydia Beaufort. And the other two girls, were the dead sisters that she had never - during all their time acquainted - even alluded to.
How could he have been so stupid? Years ago, he had heard the tale of how the Mad Earl of Galway came to be dubbed with his dubious moniker because he had gone mad from grief, over the loss of two of his daughters and his wife, all on the same night. Gabe had clean forgot about it, if he was honest, for England was full of tragic tales of loss. And if Lydia did not mention her dead mother, he had thought it was because so much time had passed that she did not think on her. But looking at the portrait in his hands, the portrait that Lydia had taken out and glanced at during every meeting he had ever had with her, Gabe knew that he was wrong. So very, very wrong.
Lydia brought her mother and her sisters everywhere with her, until Gabe, in a fit of jealousy, had stolen them away.
“Oh, God,” Gabe groaned, dropping his head into his hands. In all his years, he had never known such an all-encompassing sense of shame.
“My Lord?” Wilkes hovered near by, his voice concerned.
“I’m an ass Wilkes,” Gabe muttered, “A donkey’s ass.”
The valet remained tactfully silent.
Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, Gabe stood to leave. He had to get to Lydia and warn her that the Count’s intentions were far from honourable. Then inform her that the other man in her life, had also behaved dishonourably.
Goodness, was it any wonder the girl had no interest in marrying, when men kept proving themselves over and over to be no good, dissolute, rakehalls?
Desperate to redeem some of Lydia’s faith in both himself, and all men, Sutherland raced back to Mayfair, galloping through the late-afternoon traffic like a man possessed.
“I need to speak with Lady Beaufort, urgently,” he gasped, slightly breathless, to the butler, who looked amused to see him standing there, yet again.
“You’re taking a trip to Guernsey?” the old man parroted, cupping his hand to his ear.
“No,” Gabe snapped, his patience running thin, “I need to speak to Lady Beaufort. Right. Now.”
His last words were an angry roar, and the butler reeled back from him, startled by the ferocity of his tone.
“Well there’s no need to shout, my Lord,” the old man said, turning, and shuffling into the hall in search of Lydia. Gabe reckoned that at the pace the butler was going, Lydia would not be found until Christmas, and so he followed the old man inside, peering up the stairs in hope that his shouting had attracted someone’s attention.
“Lord Sutherland.”
It was the French Maid, Marguerite, standing half way down the sweeping stair-case, her small white hand resting on the balustrade, her face pale and nervous.
“I need to speak to Lady Lydia, urgently,” Sutherland said, again.
“Oh,” the girl looked nervous
ly at the butler, as though afraid he might be listening to what she was about to say. Then she rolled her eyes, and continued speaking. “She is not ‘ere, my Lord Sutherland. She left to see ze Gypsy in Covent Jardin, but she ‘as not returned and she should be ‘ome by now.”
“What Gypsy?” Gabe asked, perplexed. Lydia had often discussed the fortune tellers of the theatre district in an abstract manner, but she had never hinted that she was actually visiting one. Gabe had told her often enough that they had no special powers, but were merely Charlatans, playing on people’s hopes and wishes.
“’Er name is Carmen,” Marguerite said sourly, descending the last few steps gracefully, so she could speak properly with the Marquess. “She pretends she can speak with ze dead, my Lord. My Lady Beaufort is zere because ze last time she went, she left somezing behind, and ze Gypsy demanded five pounds for its return.”
“What was it?” Gabe asked in a strangled voice, for he was sure he already knew the answer.
“’Er miniature,” the maid whispered, “Ze one she brings with ‘er everywhere. She could not stand ze thought of leaving London without it.”
“Oh, God,” Gabe sighed, he was responsible for all this mess. “Tell me where I can find this Carmen?”
Once Marguerite had furnished him with the Gypsy’s address, Sutherland made his way quickly to the dank lane, off the main square in Covent Garden. His nose wrinkled as he dismounted Eros, from the combined stench of urine and horse dung. He tethered Eros loosely to a drain pipe - hoping that the stallion wouldn’t pull too much, as if he did the whole street was liable to collapse.
“Hello?” he called as he rapped his knuckles impatiently on the door. “Is there anyone there?”
The front door creaked half way open, and a pair of kohl rimmed eyes peered out nervously at him.
“What do you want?”
Gabe grimaced at the ridiculous accent; pure pantomime.
“I’m looking for Lady Beaufort,” he said, adopting the most imperious tone he could muster. And being a Marquess, it was a most imperious tone indeed.
A Lady Like No Other: A Regency Romance (Regency Black Hearts Book 3) Page 13