“I am a trial, am I not, Richmond? Well, I shall make it up to you by offering you a glass of the same. Good for the digestion, mind, and will take those silly furrows off your forehead. Go to it!”
Richmond, more than honored by this offhanded gesture, made no further complaint. He was confirmed in his opinion that the Earl of Raven, though mad, was nonetheless an exemplary employer if you could overlook his bluff manners. And Richmond could.
Below stairs, the Misses Chartleys were removing their pelisses and sensible gloves. Both were dreaming unmaidenly thoughts, but neither revealed as much to the other, for such maundering was unfitting and quite unlike their usual, cheerful selves. Daisy was wondering, with a quiver of her heart, whether Armand—her heart fluttered as she thought of that seductive, all-intrusive name—would truly be back for her that night. Primrose, rather less dramatic, felt a faint wistfulness as she imagined Lord Rochester’s bold dark eyes raking her over. She wondered if she could possibly maintain her composure when next they encountered one another. She thought not.
“Good morning, Mistress Bartlett! Has Lily arrived back, yet?”
“Miss Lily? No, dear! Was she not with you girls? I feel certain I laid out her walking boots same as you, like.”
“Yes, you did, but she was taken up in Lord Barrymore’s chaise. She should have returned by now.” A frown creased Primrose’s brow, and a copper curl fell across her brow, only to be pushed back by an impatient hand.
Daisy frowned. “Should we have let her go, I wonder? Lord Barrymore is a fortune hunter. I had it off Meg.”
“And Meg talks too much! I find Lord Barrymore’s manners impeccable. Besides, there is Standish.” Primrose spoke almost to reassure herself, for in truth, though she would not own it, she was worried.
“Perhaps Lily has twisted the poor man’s arm and forced him to take her to Astley’s! She has been pining to see the circus.”
“Very likely.” Primrose did not allow doubt to creep into her tone. Daisy, though a dear, was easily alarmed. She turned to the housekeeper. “We shall be in the cellars when she returns. I have a mind to still some of that cherry wine. The sediment, I hear, is excellent for a fever. If it is so, I shall have a great quantity of it made up and sent on to the estates. It will be a chill winter, I fear.”
Mrs. Bartlett murmured assent. “What if Miss Lily does not return?”
“Oh, she will. If she does not within the hour, however, best call me. How is Grandfather today?”
“Swearing ten to the dozen and calling for porter.” Mrs. Bartlett could not hide a wry smile.
“Excellent. Then he is recovering! Water down the porter, will you? It is not good for him.”
“Mercy me! Water it down? That I shall not, miss, for I value my life!”
Daisy chuckled. “She is not wrong, Primmy! If you water it down, take it in yourself and make very certain you are not wearing your best gown! As a matter of fact, wear that hideous emerald, for he is sure to throw it at you and the muslin could bear discarding.”
“Nonsense, it is still perfectly good. All I have to do is remove Lily’s tiresome rosettes and the thing will be quite wearable. Very well, Mrs. Bartlett, have it your way. Give him the porter if it will please him so! Perhaps I shall go up and talk to him myself. Daisy, you go down to the cellars. I shall be with you directly.”
“No! I shall withdraw to my chamber, if you have no objection.” Daisy blushed, for how could she say she wished to choose out a wedding gown for herself? Primrose would doubtless laugh at her pretension, for who was to say that her romantic hero would in truth return to whisk her away as promised? It was all too much like a work of fiction to be real or true. She sighed with relief as Primrose nodded, her mind too filled with misgiving for Lily and concern for the earl to be at all suspicious.
As Daisy crossed the long gallery that led to the west wing, Primrose checked the hall clock absently and ascended the great stairs. If she was anxious about either of the Miss Chartley siblings, she made no further comment.
An unsettling five minutes with Raven made her startlingly aware that something was amiss. He was brandishing a paper in her face then snatching it away as she tried to read it.
“Go away, miss, and leave a gentleman to enjoy his porter in peace!”
“Sir, you are being mysterious. What is that piece of parchment you flutter in my face?”
“Ha, would you not like to know!” He wagged his finger in her face and chortled. “Your sister, brazen hussy, is to wed this day.”
Primrose at once thought of Daisy and wondered however the earl had come to divine her secret. Ever since her midnight tryst with the mysterious gentleman, she had come to suspect as much. Daisy was in high fidgets today, forever touching her luxurious bright curls in front of the glass and showing, by her curious lack of interest in the offerings of Hookhams, an abstracted air that had left the quick-witted Primrose wondering. Still, since she felt a liking for Barnacle Jack—or whoever else he happened to be when he was not masquerading as such—she did not react to the news with the requisite hysterics. Instead, she calmly filled the earl’s tumbler with water and remarked that she guessed as much.
Of course, Lord Raven was referring to Lily, who had just scampishly defied him—as he knew she would—and eloped with Barrymore. My lord was not a fool. He knew that though the viscount had impudently termed it an abduction, his adorable scamp of a granddaughter would have been a most willing participant in the matter.
“Did you, by God!” The earl’s eyes gleamed with amusement, but Primrose made no comment. Rather, she drew back his curtains a little, allowing soft sunlight to stream into the ill-lit room. My lord made no comment, so she took courage into her hands and handed him the drink. He eyed her with scowling dislike and there was a moment when Primrose wished she had changed into the emerald. Then Lord Raven stared at her hard, laughed a little, and tossed it down without a murmur. Primrose was so surprised she could have fallen over backward.
“Ah, little Miss Prim and Proper! You are a dark horse, I swear, for a strange little bird tells me that it shall be you who is next.”
Miss Chartley, unaware that Lord Raven had the advantage over her, and had recently engaged in an extremely profitable interview with a certain eligible marquis, disclaimed a little hotly and muttered that the earl was raving.
“Ha! Raving indeed! You see if wedding bells are not in the air, ere long, my little Miss Marchioness! You see!”
To placate him, Primrose nodded and allowed that she would do just that. The earl regarded her from under his brows and muttered that he would give a ransom to know the sum total of Primrose’s activities. Primmy blushed, for Raven was the last person in the world she cared to confide her secrets to. Heavens, mistaking a peer of the realm for her own coachman! She could scarce credit it herself; she certainly was not going to lay the matter open to the earl’s lusty speculation. She colored just thinking on the circumstance, for certainly for a young lady of her sensible, orderly, and unimpeachable virtue, the night at Almack’s had been a strange diversion indeed. A telltale smile hovered on her lips at the very memory and the earl settled back with grim satisfaction. He loved his granddaughter dearly, but could never resist the impulse to tease the life out of her. “So!” he said. “Daisy and Lily are not the only naughty pusses in my household.”
“Lily?” Primrose was diverted for a moment, for she could have sworn the earl knew nothing of Lily. They had talked only of Daisy.
“Aye. But I am sore beset by the lot of you! Leave me now, that I may brood my misfortunes in peace.” Primrose wisely chose not to push him further, for the old man was looking suddenly tired, despite the excited lights gleaming behind his sagging eyelids.
“Very well, Grandfather. I shall not disturb you further.” Raven grunted, so Primrose stole closer to him and placed a light, butterfly kiss upon his forehead. At this, he glared, but the eldest Miss Chartley did not allow this to concern her. She would have been more perturbe
d by far had he smiled.
“Lily back yet?”
“Not a sign of her, Miss Primrose! I took the liberty of sending a footman round to Lord Barrymore’s residence. She will be ruined if he took her there, but perhaps the groom will know what my lord’s intentions were.”
Primrose’s heart stood still, for a moment. Mrs. Bartlett was right. Lily would be ruined if Barrymore was careless of her honor. What if she had misjudged him? If he was nothing but an unscrupulous adventurer who sought to abduct her for the ransom? Lord knows, they were fair game to half the world now that the whole of London knew the extent of the fortune Raven had placed on their heads.
She shivered and determined to go at once to Upper Grosvenor Square herself. If Lily needed help, she was duty-bound to provide it, however difficult the venture. It was she, after all, who had permitted Lily to be taken up by the viscount. If she had been mistaken in his intentions... she thought hurriedly. Night must not be permitted to fall without Lily safe back home. The consequences would be dire and very hard to quash, since London had taken them up as their pets. Bother, bother, and botheration! She thought, for an instant, of seeking out Lord Rochester then realized there would be no time to await an answer.
After a moment’s hesitation, however, she penned a quick note to him—no time to be squeamish about the niceties of imperious missives to unattached gentlemen—and sealed it with a determined fist. She signed it a simple “Miss Chartley,” for though Lord Rochester had made free with her name once before, she was not so lost to propriety as to presume on that previous familiarity. As it was, she was already beyond the bounds. She trusted the marquis would overlook the offense. She was very certain, somehow, that he would at least stand friend. Her heart fluttered for a moment, for she was beginning to doubt her instincts. Then she scolded herself for a fool and handed the letter up to the butler, who was hovering solicitously nearby.
“See to it, if you please, that all haste is made to the Marquis of Rochester. Wait for a reply. It may be that his lordship follows you out. If he does, obey him in all things, for he acts for me. Go now!” Primrose waved her hand. The butler did not mention that such tasks were for errand boys. He saw genuine distress in Primrose’s lovely eyes. Even her clipped tones and imperious commands spoke of an emergency, for in all things she was tranquil and courteous. He bowed, instead, and made haste to do her bidding.
Primrose took the steps two at a time and flung off her gown, which by good fortune was not one of those fashionable rigs with a thousand tiny fastenings at the back. Such was more Lily’s style. This morning gown of copper-colored organza was waisted high at the bust and required only a deft twist of satin and lace to loosen the overgarment. This was flung over Primrose’s head, the serviceable brown underskirt meeting the same fate in just seconds. Stripped to her shift, Primrose shivered slightly and knelt before an old chest that had not been opened in donkeys’ years, but which contained, she prayed, a jerkin and knee breeches and a crisp white shirt that was probably faded by now. In truth, she was right, for these were the playthings of her childhood and the boys’ garments had been used in all plays and pageants for time immemorial until they were pronounced young ladies. Then they had been told sternly to put away such unsuitable playthings and act fairy princesses and Gothic maidens if they still needed an outlet for youthful exuberance. Never as much fun, of course.
Now Primrose eyed the doublet doubtfully, for she had grown in places since she had last pushed her slender frame into the attire. She threw off her shift and firmly wriggled into the linen shirt. It fitted, but would not fool sharp eyes long. She dared not think of discovery, so she followed the shirt with the knee breeches and pulled on a pair of boots that were also tucked away neatly in the chest. Hopelessly in need of a shine, of course, and tight so they pinched—Primrose had not realized quite how much they’d all grown—but they’d serve.
Her copper curls glinted in the sunlight, and she eyed them with misgiving. Though cut short, the curls were altogether too feminine to be deceptive. She tucked them away under the brim of a beaver and hoped her disguise did not have to endure long. It would be sufficient, she thought, to pass unmolested through Bond Street, where she would need to take a couple of rights and a single left again into Upper Grosvenor. If she walked briskly—the chaise was too damnably identifiable—she should make it. Certainly, she had a greater chance of arriving undetected than if she walked unaccompanied through these streets as a woman. Even calling up a hackney cab as a young lady would be asking for too much trouble. Primrose was nothing, if not cautious, though her current actions seemed to belie this. She hesitated, a moment, over whether to tell Daisy her concerns.
No! Grandfather had all but said Daisy was to wed. By his demeanor and his description of her as an impudent hussy, she inferred that he knew she was planning to elope. Let Daisy have her happiness.
If she returned with Lily, there would be no cause for alarm. If she did not . . . Daisy must not be burdened with the knowledge. There would be time enough after. Let her enjoy, at least, her wedding vows free of frowns and sighs and lamentations. There would be enough of those after.
Primrose pulled herself up shortly. Nonsense! Like as not she was enacting a Cheltenham tragedy and Lily—naughty Lily had simply lost track of the time. Lord knows, Lord Barrymore was as handsome as the devil himself. If he was wooing her with soft words and whispers, hours might easily seem as minutes. Even now, she was probably eating cream puffs at Gunther’s and waving to all of her acquaintance.
Primrose prayed Standish was still on their track and had had the sense to remain entirely visible. The world would delight in an on-dit such as that. She grabbed a walking stick from the hall and hastened down the steps. If she was to save Lily—either from her folly or from Barrymore’s, there was no time to waste.
Daisy she left in the kitchens, merrily stilling cherry wine to her angel heart’s content. The bright-eyed minx’s thoughts were dreamy, romantic, and altogether far away as she tammied the precious mixture through cloth. Armand, Armand . . . she sighed the name out loud so two scullery maids, divining the improper direction of her thoughts, giggled. Daisy, dream Daisy, did not hear. She was engaged in the extraction of soothing sediment, quite unconscious that her most dear and sensible sister was embarking on an adventure all of her own.
Seventeen
Lord Rochester’s door was slightly ajar, for he was expecting Fothing, the jeweller, at any moment. When his butler coughed politely at the entrance, he laid down his papers and smiled. “Ah, I was expecting you. Will you seat the gentleman in the library? I shall be with him shortly.”
“My lord, it is not the jeweller who has called, but a linkboy sent round from Lord Raven. I have a missive directed to you. I believe there is some urgency attached to the matter, but like as not the linkboy was exaggerating.” The butler coughed uncertainly, for in truth he was not certain he had done the correct thing. No doubt the note would have kept.
To his relief, my lord did not seem angered by the interruption, rather he thanked him mildly and extended his hand. The butler delivered up the crisp, freshly sealed wafer and withdrew with a silence that owed as much to his station as to his shining, soft-heeled shoes.
Rochester ripped open the message with interest. A woman’s hand, he thought. This was confirmed on reading.
My lord,
Forgive my intrusion. I suspect the Viscount Barrymore of abducting my sister, though I hope and pray I am incorrect in this assessment. If you feed able, I would much appreciate your help in this matter and trust your discretion entirely.
Yours,
Miss Chartley
Miss Chartley. Lord Rochester did not stop to think which Miss Chartley was the author of this missive. Rather, his mind conjured up hideous visions of the only Miss Chartley he cared about being carried away by a golden-headed devil-like Barrymore. Gareth’s heart stopped. The blackguard! The viscount had warned him of his interest in Primrose, but he had taken no h
eed and left the matter too late. He would cut his heart out with a sword and throw it to the dogs. He would . . . but already Gareth had swung into action. He opened his mahogany drawer and took out a dueling pistol. Swords were very fine, but from a distance a shot was more effective.
If he had harmed a hair on Primrose’s head . . . he could not bear thinking of it. He did not waste time calling for a stable hand, but rather ran nimbly down to the stables himself. He would have chosen his black Arab, for that would have been swifter, but stopped a moment, and selected a well-sprung barouche. A closed carriage was what he needed, for he would return Primrose to her household with her reputation unstained if it was the last thing he did. Then he would secure a special license and marry her out of hand the very next day. Such assurances were necessary thoughts to him as he tapped on the coach door and gestured the horses to go faster. Sadly, for they were traversing down congested London streets, where cobbles, hacks, gigs, and hawkers all conspired against him, they could not put up any more of a spanking pace than they already were setting.
Primrose, hurrying down Bond Street and Burlington, caught a whisper of his carriage wheels as he made a turn. She did not know for certain they were his, though, so she carried on quickly, her feet making greater progress than the carriage, for she had the advantage of nimbleness of gait and the ability to duck through crowds.
“Hoy there!”
Primrose did not stop, but her heart beat a little faster. There was a small crowd of street urchins across the way. She hoped they would let her pass in peace.
“Penny for the crossing.” Ridiculous! One did not have to part with a penny to cross a simple road in broad daylight! It was not as if they were street sweepers or linkboys. She pressed on, her heart beating faster yet. The boys, sensing easy game, tagged her and set up a chorus of cant words that she took as menacing, though she understood nothing of the sense. If she had a penny, she would have gladly parted with it, for she had no desire for trouble and every need of speed.
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