“I want the diamonds!”
“You shall have them!”
“What?” Lady Dashford had been prepared for a fight. She had not been prepared for such ready capitulation. She therefore sharpened her tone and badgered Lord Edgemere on the state of his addled wits.
“The diamonds are no longer yours to give, my lord. The whole dashed world and his wife were privy to your gambling fever! ”
“Tut, tut! Do you doubt me? And tut tut again! Your language is execrable!”
The Earl of Edgemere took the liberty of enjoying himself thoroughly. Lady Caroline threw him a poisonous look, then stepped back into the shadows. She thought she heard someone coming. It was a false alarm, but one that made her more anxious than ever to have done with the interview.
“Lord Robert, you shall tell me what you mean!”
“Mean?” His hooded lashes looked innocent, but Lady Caroline was not fooled.
“I want the diamonds!”
“So you have said. These, I infer?” Out of his impeccably tailored waistcoat, the diamonds were drawn forth.
Lady Dashford’s hands trembled. “It was all a silly mistake, then? You did not lose the necklace?”
“Oh, but I did! But I also confronted Sir Archibald with all his vowels—I hold the bank, you see—and so he quite saw that redeeming the debts was a matter of honour he could not, in all conscience, ignore. So! A little lively swap and lo, the diamonds are mine again!”
“You are a devil, Lord Robert!”
“Mmm ... but not without a heart. I promised Sir Archibald that none would be any the wiser. As far as society is concerned, the gems are his. Tomorrow, he will be able to take out a loan on the strength of the collateral. After that... well, after that it shall be put about that he sold the necklace.”
“To you.”
“To me.”
“For me!”
His lordship sighed. “Yes, for you, my dear Lady Caroline!”
“Lord Robert, I did you an injustice!”
“Do not be too hasty, Lady Caroline. Perhaps I play a deeper game than you think.”
“What do I care? So long as these dear, dear diamonds shall be mine!”
“They shall be, Lady Caroline.”
“When?”
“Perhaps on the night of my ball.” His voice grew stern, and the soft silk of his hair shimmered slightly in the moonlight. “But there is an end to the matter, Caroline! You shall stop hounding me and accept, at last, that you shall not be the next Countess Edgemere.”
Lady Caroline looked sharply at the earl. His jaw was firm and his eyes crushingly direct. She decided, therefore, to be conciliatory, curtsying in as beguiling a fashion as she knew how. “Agreed, your lordship.”
Lord Edgemere held her glance for a moment or so, then nodded.
“Very well, Lady Dashford, it is agreed.”
The arrangement was sealed on a slight, somewhat merry bow, before his lordship resumed his midnight amble to the stables.
Lady Caroline looked after his straight, imposing back for a moment. A wicked smile played on the corners of her lips.
“Oh, Robert! For all your worldly charm, you are still a mere greenhorn!” She snapped the swansdown shut with a click. “No one will believe, when I appear with your diamonds, that I am not betrothed. You shall marry me, Lord Robert, like it or no. For a man of breeding and conscience, there is no other course.”
She would have been discomforted, indeed, to learn she had just fallen, quite splendidly, into the trap of Lord Edgemere’s careful crafting.
When he sprung it, there might, indeed, be a wedding. But whose?
The eighth Earl Edgemere’s groom was surprised to hear his master whistle rather jauntily all the dark way home.
It was too late for Robert to hope Anne would be star gazing. Nevertheless, in the forlorn hope that she was, he ceased his restless attempt at sleep and stepped up to the library. There were no welcoming tapers, no revealing little flickers of light. He ‘opened the door and set his own candle down on the mantel. Well past one o’clock. A good night’s work if everything went according to plan.
Strange how the room seemed so hollow without Miss Derringer. It seemed to echo with creaks and groan from the load of half-read books upon the shelf. To rectify matters, a little, the earl decided to take down his Byron. He was in the mood for something to balm his soul. It did not take long to flick through the familiar pages, nodding a little here, memorising a little there. Ah... Robert smiled with pleasure. He had not been mistaken. The words he had been seeking jumped off the page as if crying for deserved attention.
You walk in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in your aspect and your eyes.
Byron must have known such a one as Anne. His words whispered of truth, of immortal clarity. If my lord had not known better, he would have guessed that the poet had met Miss Derringer during one of her notorious seasons. After all, she had bright eyes and a mane of hair as pitch as midnight itself. It was only its lustre that granted it its sheen and likened its movement to the sparkle of so many stars on the celestial horizon.
Celeste, ah, Celeste! It belonged to her now, this library with its masculine smell of leather and the scent of pages well worn or waiting.
Waiting to be opened by slender, appreciative hands. Waiting to be granted life by the lady society had carelessly branded a bluestocking and he—he had branded as life’s sparkling joy.
He poured himself a brandy from the decanter and settled back on his chair. He tried not to think of his comely little governess, tucked up in crisp, well-aired sheets. She was dreaming, perhaps... he did not dare invade the privacy of those dreams.
He sighed and allowed the book to drop from his lap. No doubt he wasn’t the only person lost to repose tonight. She might be sleeping, but Sir Archibald would be seething. He had not been pleased to be confronted with the total of his carelessly penned vowels. For an instant, Robert had feared the Manton’s pistols that he sported upon his person.
Dalrymple was several thousand pounds freer of debt, but that was unlikely to weigh with him. It was the diamonds he would regret, their brilliant coming and their equally brilliant going. Then the instant passed. Sir Archibald would have to be crazed to challenge him, publicly, to a duel. He would have no wish for the world to learn of how pressing his debts were, or how ready his immediate need for cash. Besides, the vowels in Robert’s possession were all debts of honour.
They had been called in, and refusing to cover them was social suicide of the deathliest form. No, Lord Robert had been safe from the pistols. He had slipped the gems into his waistcoat quietly and promised to say nothing of the matter. The relief on Dalrymple’s ashen face had been instantly palpable. No doubt he had already secured some loans on the strength of his possession. If he did not hastily procure more tomorrow, Robert would miss his guess. The strength of his plan depended on Dalrymple illegally embroiling himself in this type of shameless transaction. Odds were, he would. And if not?
Robert chuckled. If not, Caroline would have secured for herself a very expensive parting gift. No doubt, she, too, was awake, scheming, the little hussy, to cast her coils about him even tighter. Well, she could scheme. With a small smile, he toasted Lord Anchorford’s unexpected guest, the good Lady Caroline Dashford. His own houseguest, Sir Archibald Dalrymple, he saluted with two large gulps of finest Madeira. The brandy had not been enough. It took more to toast the toadies of the world, the careless takers who thought nothing for consequences.
Fifteen
Sir Archibald Dalrymple was doing more than not sleeping. He was plotting dire and unmerciful revenge. He patted the mounds of vowels in his pockets and threw them on the table beside his bed bitterly. So! Lord Edgemere sought to play May games with him. Host or no host, he would be made to pay.
For an instant, Dalrymple relived the moment when the neck
lace, in all its shimmering glory, was placed in his hand. Oh, the exultation! He could read chagrin on faces the likes of Morrison and Cambridge. Stuck up old toffee noses! It was he, the honourable Archibald Dalrymple, who had plucked the nest egg from their noses.
He glanced sourly at his handwriting, scrawled untidily across the mass of screwed up paper. Can he have pledged so much? He supposed so. There was Latham and Cedric, and... but good God, how was he to know they would all sell up to Lord Edgemere? And why, for heavens sake, did the earl go to so much trouble? If he needed to hedge his bet with the diamonds, why bother to wager them at all? It was all rather a puzzle, and Dalrymple’s head ached. He was not sure whether it ached from Anchorford’s punch brandy, from the night’s disappointment or from the shock of seeing the Derringer chit all over again.
Well, he had offered marriage, and she had taken off like a bolt of lightning for the Somerford woman. Now he would offer something else. A carte blanche to a mere governess must be regarded as a windfall. He sneered a little and made a series of lewd remarks that mercifully went unheard but for a few barn owls at the open window.
But first! He would retrieve those diamonds by hook or by crook. All the world knew them to be his, and he would prefer to keep it that way. He would set fire to the abominable vowels. That way, there would be no proof that the motley collection ever existed. If Lord Edgemere proclaimed the necklace to be stolen, the world would think he was indulging in a fit of pique over its loss. It would be hard pressed, certainly, to believe that the necklace had passed back into his possession then out of it again in a mere matter of hours.
Good! Time was on his side, but he would have to act now. Feverishly, Dalrymple lifted each bit of paper and cast it into the embers on the hearth. They failed to ignite, although little drifts of smoke curled at the edges, blackening them, and promising, by slight smoulders of red, to blaze at their own lazy leisure.
Dalrymple did not have the luxury of waiting. He grabbed an iron poker and stoked up the fire until, in a rush of flames, the last vestiges of his gaming debts were engulfed forever. He nodded sourly. There was an end to that! And now, to regain his lost fortune.
But how? Whilst the household was usefully occupied in slumber, he could not very well creep about it in the hope of stumbling upon the loot. He must think the thing through carefully. The last he had seen, Lord Edgemere had placed the necklace into the pocket of his deplorably raffish waistcoat. How could the man have such elegant taste?
He, himself was wearing the most modish creation, padded skillfully to bolster his shoulders and striped in the handsomest golds and lilacs. Did anyone notice? Not a one. Yet, when Lord Edgemere entered the room, all eyes turned. It was most provoking! Sir Archibald scowled and kicked the tasselled Axminster with his un-slippered foot. Yes, the diamonds had definitely been slipped carelessly into the pocket. What might have happened from there?
Lord Carmichael would have returned home, bathed—drat the man, he was the type who insisted on cleanliness above perfumes and other more civilised devices—and headed on for bed. At this very moment, he was probably lost in sleep. But what of the waistcoat? Had he thrown it unceremoniously on a chair? Would his valet have stayed up to attend to the matter? Very possibly, but then, my lord would first have removed the diamonds. Or would he have?
Very perplexing. Sir Archibald fingered his curling moustaches absently. If Carmichael had removed the necklace, it was probably sitting in a drawer in his library. My lord was prodigiously fond of that dreary room. On the other hand, it was more probable that he would have headed straight up for bed and left the tedious business of stowing the thing until morning. He would not, after all, have expected them to be thieved under his very nose. Especially when the world and his wife thought they were no longer his to stow.
Dalrymple eased into the wing chair situated by the window and mused. My lord’s apartments were on the second floor, along with his precious bookroom. Either way, he would have to head off in that direction. If necessary, he would check both, though he hoped, for once, that his luck would be in. He would start with the chamber, for Lord Robert was just the sappy type to permit his valet to shirk his duties and sleep until morning. In that case, the waistcoat might just, with a stroke of luck, be dangling inelegantly from his chair.
He uncrossed his legs, threw a dressing gown about his person—a glorious sapphire brocade, emblazoned with buttons of the first stare—and lit a wax candle from the fire now raging in the hearth.
Then he crept out stealthily, his nightcap just catching on the door handle. With a muttered curse, he pulled the thing from his head, turned it about crossly, then jammed it on again. Then he left his door ajar just a crack.
Miss Derringer opened the window and allowed a cool rush of night air to linger over her face. The stars were more glorious than anything she could have imagined. It was the perfect night for star gazing. Again, she thought longingly of the Herschel telescope stowed safely away in the glass cabinet. If only she could use it, just once, to glimpse the outer vistas of that which she had only imagined before!
She was rich enough to commission her own; but Sir William was an old and frail man now, and though his son was becoming just as great an astronomer, she did not think he had the time to produce the precision, hand-crafted instruments that were his father’s especial gift. Maybe... she would set inquiries in train. Strange to think she was wealthy enough to indulge her interests in this way! Still, she doubted whether she would feel the same about her own instrument as she did about Lord Edgemere’s. The telescope was a symbol, for her, of combined passions, interests, aspirations... .
She sighed. She would have to leave tomorrow. Lord Edgemere had started to indicate this was his desire, and it was not fair—never mind downright foolhardy—to press on with her charade. She was not a penniless upper servant, no matter how much she wished to be!
Anne’s delicious sense of humour could not allow this thought to pass without an exasperated chuckle. Strange how odd life was. She had thought the world was coming to an end when she had sent herself into service. Now she was loath to remove, once more, to the fashionable world. Why? Because, scandalously, she would rather be in Lord Edgemere’s keeping than not. She would rather be prattling proverbs and participles than batting her eyelashes and allowing herself to be whisked across a ballroom by the likes of Lord Willoughby Rothbart and the mincing, brainless fop, Sir Archibald Dalrymple.
Better to be a wallflower, or the ice maiden... but no! She wished for neither, yet both were to be her destiny. She sighed. Perhaps it would have been better if Mr. Clark had never been so good as to inform her of her change in fortune. Now, she supposed, she would be at the mercy of fortune hunters. At least she need never worry that Lord Edgemere was one of those detestable creatures! He made her small fortune look paltry!
Which reminded her... it would be dangerous to think of the earl in those terms. No doubt, when she was no longer living under his roof, in his employ, the attraction on his part would cease. Gracious heavens, he would never consider marrying her! Look at how appalled he had been when Lady Caroline had ventured to shackle him! And she refused—utterly refused—to be placed in the same category as Lady Caroline.
She would pen a note and leave it for him in the book room. If he discovered her altered position, it would be just like him to fathom she was compromised. Anne had no desire to have to convince Lord Robert that she was not ruined. Some temptations were best left alone.
Now she left the window and the shooting stars that left a blazing trail across the skies and sat down to sketch a missive to her lord. The room was dark, so she boldly, wastefully, lit several tapers at once and set them in the wooden candelabra set aside for her use. She had no qualms, for Lord Robert’s spirit, like his pocket, was admirably generous.
If a few tears stained the missive, she was not so foolhardy as to leave them to dampen the crisp, cream sheets. Instead, she rubbed at them carefully with her handkerchief and blo
tted the inky letters neatly with the little muslin square. After all, she reasoned, she could always buy another. It would not do for her work to be either illegible or tearful. Either way, it would reflect detrimentally upon her character. Somehow, even though she was bidding farewell, she still found it necessary to retain the eighth Earl Edgemere’s high esteem.
Task done—she had only written the sketchiest of explanations—she folded the letter and tucked it into her chemise. Then she scribbled a longer, more tearful, letter to her charges. This she planted next to her bed. They would be bound to search her rooms, the rascals!
She tucked her feet into Kitty’s delectable outcasts—little satin things with ludicrous spangles that the staid Miss Derringer would never dream of purchasing, but nonetheless rather enjoyed wearing—and headed, for the last time, toward the second floor.
The door was locked. Drat! Sir Archibald set down his candle and tried the handle again. Locked, if his name was not Sir Archibald Latham Arthur Dalrymple! But how could this be? If the earl was within, sleeping, he would surely not lock the heavy oak door? How, then, was his valet to enter in the morning to open the drapes and hand him his copy of the Morning Post or the equally essential Gazette? No, Sir Archibald was certain Lord Robert was not the type to lock his door.
Not unless he was pleasuring some ladybird ... but no! The earl was too much of a gapseed to indulge in such interesting activities. Dalrymple tried the handle again. He was so engrossed in the activity that he did not notice another, more shadowy figure appear down the hall. This time, with a creak that made him positively startle, the door gave way. He was propelled, rather unceremoniously inside.
It did not take long for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness—the halls were well lit with a series of hanging tapers—so he moved swiftly to the bed. No doubt the earl was fast asleep, though no snores, sadly, were emanating from his person. Sir Archibald shrugged. What odds? The bed was rumpled, and he could detect some slight lump on the far end of the lavish four-poster. This was draped luxuriously in the finest Friesland velvet, in a moss green shade that even the fastidious Dalrymple could approve. He did not, however, dwell over long upon this point of fashion. Instead, his quick eye took in the washstand and the intricate chestnut dressing table inlaid with marble and harbouring, to his profound relief, my lord’s discarded cravat, beaver, buckskins, enviable lawn shirt with chitterlings and yes, yes, yes! The Weston waistcoat of ruby serge peeked invitingly from beneath the greater frock coat. If only the necklace was still there!
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