“My heart is going to explode,” Bea whispered, as she followed Felicity through the shadowed gloom of the wide, curving staircase.
It had been a hard fight, getting to this point, sneaking into Montfort Abbey, Andover’s ancestral home, in the dead of night. She refused to lose this one chance to help Lady Andover just because her cousin didn’t have the stomach for such adventures.
“Breathe deep,” she whispered to Bea, hoping the sound didn’t carry up the spacious sweep of stairs, to the open floors above, now lost to the pitch of night. “Then let it out. Slowly, gently.”
Bea stopped to follow the instructions.
“Quietly,” Felicity hissed. “Do it quietly.”
Felicity tamped down her impatience to get to her patient. She hadn’t wanted Bea to join her any more than Thomas wanted Felicity to go to Montfort Abbey, but it seemed they were a troupe. Even Upton joined in despite having declared them all mad.
Perhaps they were, but it all seemed so simple. Thomas was to escort Felicity and Bea to London. Upton was very nearly on the way. It made practical sense to stop and include Upton for the last part of the journey. Especially as his parents and sisters had already left for the city.
Everyone agreed. Go to Upton, spend a night at his home, Beston Manor. Perfectly respectable, as Upton’s Aunt Mildred, who lived at Beston, could act as chaperone. They would set off for London the next day.
Andover’s home, Montfort Abbey, was the nearest neighbor to Upton and Beston Manor. Felicity determined this would be her one chance to help Lady Andover without Andover any the wiser.
If only Bea’s misguided and stubborn loyalty didn’t have her following Felicity into the lion, or in this case lioness’s, den.
Felicity took another tentative step, praying Bea didn’t hyperventilate into a faint.
“How will you find it in the dark?” Bea asked for the tenth time.
“It’s the only room with light.” Lord Upton had pointed it out from the gardens when they arrived at Montfort Abbey. They would go up the stairs and turn to the right, follow the wall to the furthest hallway, and turn left. “It’s the seventh doorway on the right.”
“What if she has gone back to sleep?”
“Then we will deal with that.”
Felicity counted on the inconsistencies of the morphine-eater. Not that Lady Andover had a clue what was in her tonics.
However, Felicity knew. Half of the patented medicines had morphine as their primary ingredient. The other half contained something called cocaine. No doubt Lady Andover balanced the stupor of the one with the hyper-excitement of the other. Disrupted sleep patterns would be the consequence.
“What if she has a maid with her?”
They had worked all this out during the carriage ride to Beston Manor. Felicity had a plan. Of course, if they didn’t stop whispering and Andover—or anyone—heard them, Felicity’s plan would be for naught.
Andover would fight her methods, abolishing any chance of Felicity helping his mother. Discovery would definitely bury the chance of a life as his wife.
He was the only reason she almost, almost, didn’t enact her scheme.
She accepted the risk. His mother needed help, and she didn’t believe anyone else could give it to her. Besides, helping his mother might nudge him toward understanding just what she did best. A weak platform, but the only one available.
If they ever made it to her rooms. They hadn’t even reached the first floor yet.
She turned, pointed to Thomas and Lord Upton, who stood at the base of the stairs. “Bea, go back to the men.”
“You can’t go alone.”
“Of course I can,” Felicity urged.
If the light coming from the room meant Lady Andover was awake, it also meant she’d soon be given another dose of the morphine tonic so she could sleep.
“No, you can’t.” Bea’s voice warbled with fear.
“You’re terrified,” Felicity leaned down, confirmed it with a hand on her cousin’s shoulder, amazed the girl’s teeth weren’t chattering, she shook so badly. “You will slow me down.” She turned Bea, gave her a nudge. “Go.”
Without waiting for a response, Felicity headed back up the stairs, the bannister her guide in the darkness.
She’d had a devil of a time convincing Thomas to bring her here. If not for the missive from Upton, who heard from the servant’s grapevine, Thomas wouldn’t be here at all. It seemed Lady Andover’s situation was now severe. Andover was beside himself, looked like hell. Worse yet, he refused guests. Even refused Upton.
When they arrived at Beston Manor, Upton argued. “Foolish and damn risky of you.” But he could offer no alternatives.
Just as she reached the top of the right flank of stairs, a tread creaked behind her. Frozen, she waited, jumped as a hand landed on her shoulder.
“Cis.” Thomas, now.
Hand to chest, she held her heart from jumping out. “What?” she snapped. Close to the upper floor bedrooms, they were that much more likely to be heard.
“I’m here with you.” Thomas spoke into her ear.
“Go back,” she ordered. “If we are caught and Bea is alone with Upton, there will be trouble.”
“You can’t do this alone.”
“Of course I can, with fewer problems. Go. All of you, wait for me outside.”
Thomas studied her for a moment before offering a curt nod and turning back to the others.
By the time she reached the hall of Lady Andover’s suite, it was a miracle light still glowed from beneath the door. She knocked with her nail tip, aware anyone could be there, an abigail, or worse, a dutiful son.
When no one answered, she peeked inside.
Lady Andover sat alone, in her bed, scratches on her face, hair disheveled and knotted, eyes dulled. The stench alone, enough to make her ill.
Felicity stepped inside, and took on a whole new persona. One she had carefully prepared. One who belonged in this room. One who would make a difference.
“Good evening, Lady Andover.” She closed the door behind her. “I am Mrs. Comfrey and I’m here to help you.”
CHAPTER 14 ~ WAYLAID
Day 3 ~ London
Lord Andover,
As you see by this letter, we arrived safely in town. Thomas has been out and about, living as he does, in bachelor quarters. Mother refrained from putting the knocker out so we may live quietly, awaiting your return. This is no burden to me, as I enjoy the peace. London can be so hectic.
Far from the tensions of Montfort Abbey, Felicity brushed the quill feather across her lips aware that sneaking into Andover’s family home was not the only tensions she faced. She’d not tell him any of it, though, undoubtedly, someone would. That horrid Lady Oakston and her daughters. They arrived at Ansley Park, uninvited, on the eve of The Scandal. No doubt their intention was to snag a husband, what with Thomas and his friends about. Instead, they managed to snag an on-dit. The new darlings of the social scene, their tales grew with each telling.
Felicity heard them all.
A pox to them.
Andover knowing any of this could wait. Letter writing too easily misunderstood. She must convince him she cared nothing for society’s censure. That she would survive should they not marry.
They could not marry. Upton had the right of it, it was a disaster. She needed to make her own life. Somehow.
Unfortunately, she still needed to work out a way to save her family from whatever shadow she cast. Another matter on her lap that he would take responsibility for. She could not allow that.
Ideas brewed.
She would not be afraid.
She would ignore her heart. That tender organ had nothing to do with helping his mother.
She picked up the quill again.
I pray your mother is faring well and able to enjoy what little pleasure spring has to offer. Such terrible weather, I fear we will all suffer the doldrums soon.
How do you find Montfort Abbey? Will you be leaving for L
ondon soon? Our last conversation weighs heavily upon my thoughts, though correspondence such as this fails to offer the proper means of discussion. I would that we could speak, rather than write, of such important matters. Is this possible, before London knows of your arrival? Have you any thoughts on the matter?
I wish you Godspeed with your subsequent travels.
Sincerely,
Lady Felicity
There, she’d said what needed saying. If only he would arrive and they could speak. She folded the letter, to slip onto the silver platter to be franked and mailed.
On the pretext of catching the first sunlight in days, dressed in practical clothes, paint box and travel easel in hand, Felicity faced Lady Jane Townsend and her mother coming up the stairs she meant to descend.
Ruin should promise a quiet life. Obviously, it did not.
Though neither woman had ever deigned to cross Stanton’s threshold before this, they were now of the misguided notion—as Lord Upton’s family, and his being present for The Scandal, and all of them neighbors to Montfort Abbey and therefore bosom neighbors of Lord Andover—they were required to attend Felicity.
Resigned, Felicity handed her paint box and easel to a footman as she instructed Humphrey to arrange tea.
“Tell Mother we have guests, will you, Humphrey?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“No need,” Lady Westhaven said from the stairs. “I am here. We will have tea in the blue salon,” she directed.
“Yes, my lady.” Humphrey bowed and headed for the back of the house.
Lady Westhaven directed her guests to the salon, gesturing for them to sit. “I’m afraid we are barely settled, not at all ready for company.”
“Don’t want to be a bother,” Lady Beston chirruped. “But we felt we must come and see you.” She leaned in close to Lady Westhaven, who leaned back. “All that folderol! How unfortunate! Rupert told us all about it, in the strictest of confidence, mind you.” She took a deep breath, her lips pursing in a mournful moue. “We are so close to Andover. He is shattered, you know, absolutely shattered.”
“I thought he seemed perfectly fine when he left Ansley Hall,” Lady Westhaven offered.
“Well, he would now, wouldn’t he? Such a gentleman.”
“Are you really going to reject him?” Lady Jane asked outright.
“Of course not,” Lady Westhaven interjected, as though she and Felicity were not at loggerheads over that very issue. “An announcement has been sent to the Times.”
The Townsend women exchanged knowing glances. Lady Beston’s lip lifted in an imitation smile. “I wonder how we could have missed it. We’ve looked every day to see who was marrying.”
“I can assure you that Lord Westhaven sent it in days ago,” Felicity’s mother assured them, even though, that very morning, both her mother and father riffled through the paper complaining about the delay. “However, Lord Westhaven did send it from Ansley Park, and you know how the post is from the country. Always a dreadful delay.”
“Of course,” Lady Beston agreed, occupying Lady Westhaven with tales of errant postal deliveries, leaving the younger ladies to speak amongst themselves.
“Did you really post the announcement?” Lady Jane tilted her head. “We will have to watch for it. As it is, I have been speaking with Lord Andover, you know.”
“Have you?” Felicity froze. Might Andover seek solace in Lady Jane? The lady in question narrowed her eyes.
“Are you surprised?” The fair lady sniffed. “He is an honorable man, and will do what is expected, but that doesn’t mean he failed to be alarmed by your behavior.” Lady Jane smiled, a cat-like smile, “Dear Felicity, the poor man doesn’t know what to make of your behavior.”
“What behavior are you speaking of?” Felicity challenged, wondering exactly what Andover divulged.
“Oh ho! Do you think I don’t know? And look at you, so pleased with yourself.” Jane sniffed.
“Am I?” She wasn’t pleased with herself. Not at all. In the end, she would destroy her family’s name, and for what? A kiss at midnight?
“You managed to snare quite a catch, even if he is reluctant.”
“Reluctant?” She refused to rise to the bait.
“Well, you were terribly forward.”
“We are betrothed,” she lied, hating, in the end, Lady Jane’s right to her smugness.
“A lady never goes to a man’s rooms, not even his wife, not without having her visit announced.”
“What a formal marriage you will have, Lady Jane.”
“I was raised to understand these things.”
“How unfortunate.” And suddenly Felicity was glad her parents chose to sleep together, foregoing the worry of when to approach each other’s rooms as Lady Jane planned to do.
Felicity rose, as much to move away, as to pass the cups her mother poured.
“I see you had your paints out, Felicity.” Lady Westhaven diverted the conversation.
“Yes, I had hopes of catching the sun.”
“It’s been so dreadful of late.” Lady Beston lamented.
“Yes.” They all agreed.
Felicity looked out the windows at a gorgeous day spoiled by thoughts of Andover having a traditional marriage with someone like Lady Jane.
A lady never goes to a man’s rooms, not even his wife, not without having her visit announced …I was raised to understand these things.
Was that what Vi tried to teach Felicity? Better to be hurt now before you allow yourself an attachment that will never be returned.
Her mother was right. She never should have read those novels of passionate love. So full of false promises.
“For you, Lady Felicity, from Lord Andover, I believe.” Humphrey stood, just inside the room, a package in his hands.
Her humiliation was complete.
“Thank you, Humphrey.”
He never would have intruded, if not for listening at the door. Only she didn’t want a helping hand. She knew what he held. He did as well. Another gift from Andover. They always arrived this time of day. Much as Humphrey might think it so, a sign to let the ladies know Andover had not forsaken her, these gifts were personal, not for prying eyes. “Have it put in my room.”
“Oh no,” Lady Jane cooed. “You must open it for us to see. What fun!”
Lady Westhaven clapped her hands, delighted for her own reasons. “I agree with Lady Jane. Felicity, do open it now.”
“Not now, Mama,” Felicity argued, but her mother’s enthusiasm overrode her own words.
“He sends her something every day,” Lady Westhaven told them. Which he did, she presumed, to avoid her last letter requesting a conversation. He believed all discussions were over and done with.
Her mother continued. “So very thoughtful, and romantic, especially as he is not in town where one can actually find interesting gifts.” She looked at Felicity. “Do open it. Let’s see what he has sent today.”
“Oh Mother, it is of no interest to anyone but me. No one else can understand their meaning.” They were personal. Too personal. Like the slingshot, similar to the one she’d given the Smith boy, when he was forced to play outside with his mother’s illness.
For that one, Andover’s note read, If I ever get out of line, use this on me.
Another time he sent a lush velvet ribbon of a deep warm brown. That note, scrawled in in his bold script; Not a match for the beauty of your eyes, but the closest I could find.
Private exchanges, between the two of them, not for the likes of Lady Jane. But her mother insisted, and of course, the Townsend ladies refused to let it drop.
“If you will.” Felicity took the package from Humphrey, who stood still and watchful through the exchange.
“Here.” Her mother retrieved a pair of scissors from a side drawer so Felicity could cut the strings.
Carefully, as she never knew what might be inside, she pulled the paper free.
A book of gems.
She frowned, unsuccessfully se
arching for a conversation or reference that would have prompted such a gift.
Lady Jane gasped and, for the first time that afternoon, looked beyond any snipe. She seemed positively touched by the gift.
The illustrations were stunning, but what meaning did they hold?
“The card,” Lady Jane implored. “What does he say?”
“Here,” Lady Westhaven found it on the floor, “It slipped out.”
“Really, he did not mean these to be read in front of others,” Felicity argued.
“Of course he did!” Her mother argued. “Such a gallant gesture deserves to be known.” She reached over and nudged Felicity. “Go ahead, read it for us.”
Slowly, wishing she were alone, Felicity pulled the note from the envelope.
This missive proved longer than the others.
“Oh.” Her throat closed.
Not so reticent, Lady Jane snatched the note from Felicity’s fingers with practiced alacrity and read it for all to hear.
These gems are no counter to your beauty,
Rubies paled by the warmth of your heart,
Sapphire outshone by the light of your soul,
And a diamond, poor diamond, dulled in your presence.
The women sat, hands to their throats, their hearts, or, as in Lady Jane’s case, her mouth. She rallied first, lowering her hand and blurting, “He’s not much of a poet, is he?”
Gently, in honor of his efforts, Felicity took her note back, carefully placed it in its envelope. She did not want these gifts to remind her of what she would never have.
Lady Westhaven countered. “Men are not poetic by nature. They are too busy running estates and planning hunts.”
“True,” Lady Beston admitted. “My Hubert could never write a poem, though…” she looked wistful, “…when we were younger, he was known to try.”
Felicity placed the card with the book and pulled the wrapping paper around it, as though that could shield the privacy invaded.
“Well, I daresay,” Lady Jane offered her unwanted thoughts. “Andover is clever enough that if he wanted to, he could have written a proper poem. He must have been overwhelmingly busy.”
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