The Spanish Lady

by Joan Smith

  “Done a flit, has she? You must have offered for her, Severn. Can’t think what else would send her flying off.”

  “She didn’t say anything to you last night?”

  “Nothing of any account. I wonder who the lucky fellow is. Try the Great North Road, my friend. If she’s scampered on you, she must be headed for Gretna Green. May I join in the search?”

  “No,” Severn said baldly. “And I don’t want this story whispered about town, Duke. If I hear one word—”

  “The only word you shall hear from me is mum.”

  Severn’s next notion was to hunt down Malvern. That engagement to Marion was dust in his eyes. He had run off with Helena. Severn had no notion where Malvern lived, but he knew where he worked, at least, and went to Whitehall. He found Malvern in his office, scribbling at a desk.

  “Where is she?” Severn demanded.

  Malvern glanced up in confusion. “She and Mrs. Comstock planned to visit Bond Street this morning, I believe. Why—”

  “I don’t mean Marion. What have you done with Helena?”

  “Helena? What the deuce are you talking about?” Confusion soon rose to amusement. “Has she run off on you, Severn?” He was surprised she had executed her threat so swiftly.

  “Certainly not! And if you tell a single soul—”

  “Have you not heard, Severn? I am a reformed character. As you and I will soon be connections—grim thought, eh?—naturally I wish to brush all the family scandals under the carpet.” He leaned back, pondering. “I wonder ...” He wanted to give Severn a clue without breaking faith with Helena.

  “What is it?” Severn asked eagerly.

  “I was just thinking—those Spanish folks at El Cafeto. You don’t think she might have gone to them? I saw her talking to that guitar player, Juan, at the party last night,” he said, as it occurred to him she might be waiting there until the ship was ready to sail.

  “That’s it! That’s where she is! Thank you, Malvern.”

  He pounded back to his curricle, and after some driving in circles, finally found El Cafeto. Juan was not there, but after some confused bilingual conversation, half of which he could not understand, he was directed to the set of rooms across the street where Juan lived. He ran across the street, up the narrow, dark stairs, and pounded at the indicated door.

  Juan replied at once, wearing a gleaming smile. “Milord! You have another party for me to play, yes? I was a very success at Lady Helena’s ball. All the world—”

  Severn pushed him aside and barged into the apartment. He rushed through the few rooms, a kitchen and bedroom, and could see quite clearly that she was not there. Nothing indicated she had ever been there.

  “What you are looking for, please?” Juan asked,

  “Lady Helena. Have you seen her?”

  “But yes!”

  “Where?” The word came out like a bark.

  “At her party. Very beautiful, all in white.”

  “Have you seen her since then?”

  “But no, milord. She is missing person?”

  “No,” Severn said, as he did not wish to waste time explaining and was convinced Juan was telling the truth.

  He went once again to his curricle. Anxiety pinched like a vice at his chest. Where had she gone? A lady did not disappear into thin air. She had apparently not sought the assistance of any of her friends. Perhaps Marion knew something. But Marion was shopping on Bond Street. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, but as nothing else occurred to him, he drove there and continued driving up and down the street at a dangerous pace until he spotted Marion and Mrs. Comstock coming out of a drapery shop. He leapt from his rig, leaving it unattended, and darted up to them.

  “Marion, Helena has run away,” he said. “Did she say anything to you last night? I’ve been all over ... to Malvern....”

  Marion reminded herself that Helena had not said anything last night. If Malvern was not telling, neither was she. She and Mrs. Comstock expressed the proper amount of shock and concern but were of no help at all in solving the problem.

  “I knew she was after Malvern,” Mrs. Comstock said, with a spiteful smile. “When she saw it was hopeless, she took to her heels. The Spaniards are famous for their pride, you must know, Severn. She would not take defeat lightly.”

  “Don’t be so foolish,” he said, and stormed back to his curricle.

  Invention failed him. He could think of nowhere else to look, and in desperation he drove home, nurturing the forlorn hope that she had returned. Sugden’s worried face told him she had not, but he asked anyway. “She didn’t come back?”

  “No, milord. No word. Her ladyship is most anxious to speak with you. She is in the morning parlor.”

  He found his mother there, pacing to and fro in front of the window. “No word?” she asked. Severn just shook his head and gave a brief description of his morning.

  “It is so unlike Cousina,” she said. “She was always so thoughtful. There is nothing for it but to call in Bow Street, then. We cannot hope to scour all of London ourselves. Indeed she has probably left London. Gone into the country to hide, or back to Spain.” Severn gave her a sharp look. “But no,” she said, “she would not have left without telling me. I doubt she had enough cash to pay for her passage. I know she was short.”

  “She borrowed a hundred pounds from me,” Severn said. “Now I know why she would not tell me what she wanted it for.”

  “It was a wedding gift for Mrs. Petrel-Jones. She married Gagehot on Wednesday. Helena attended the wedding.”

  “Why did you not tell me?” he demanded.

  His mama’s patience broke and she turned on her son. “Because you always make such a business of nothing, just like your papa. You would have jawed at her. Besides, it was none of your business. She always told me what she was up to, just as she should. If you were not so swift to judge, we would have told you as well. I place this whole affair in your dish, Edward. Anyone could see the poor child wanted to love you, but you would not let her.”

  “Mama, how can you say such a thing!” he exclaimed, deeply shocked. “My whole aim since the first moment I laid eyes on her was to win her. I am sick with love.”

  “You concealed it well. It looked more like temper to me.”

  “Now I’ve lost her forever,” he said, staring with grim fortitude into the cold grate.

  His mama’s maternal instincts were touched. “She doesn’t love anyone else, Son. Can you not follow her to Spain?”

  Severn looked at her in consternation. “Go to Spain?”

  “Where else can she have gone?”

  “She would not leave all her pretty clothes behind if she were going to Spain.”

  “Oh, pooh! Stop thinking like a man, Edward. Besides, she took a few cases out of the house.”

  You always think when you should feel, Helena had said to him. But he needed head as well as heart now. She had been reading the marine schedule in the library the other day. He turned and hurried to the library.

  A pile of recent journals was stacked at one end of the table. He began rooting through them. Sugden came and inquired if his lordship would like a bite of lunch, as it was one o’clock. Severn raised his hand and batted Sugden away, without lifting his eyes from the papers.

  He flipped pages quickly, until his eye caught the pen markings Helena had made. Princess Margaret, bound for Spain—and the date was today! He glanced at his watch. She might already have left! How she must hate him, to have done this. It was all his fault. He had nagged at the poor girl until, in desperation, she had fled his house.

  He must get her back. Perhaps he could find a fast ship to overtake the Princess Margaret. He hastened back to his rig and whipped his grays to sixteen miles an hour, narrowly avoiding collision with Sir Isaac Morton’s brougham and very nearly running down various innocent pedestrians on the way. Fists were shaken and voices raised as he weaved his way through London’s busy traffic.

  She had left her tilbury behin
d to repay his debt. The debt that he had chided her for so severely, and it was only a gift to her papa’s lightskirt, after all. She was determined to do the right thing if Aylesbury was not. He saw a ship drawing anchor as he reached the dock. As he drew closer, the words Princess Margaret could be seen through the mist. The ship was drawing ever farther away. He leapt down and ran to the dock.

  On the stern of the deck a group of passengers waved. He espied a lone female figure set a little apart from the others. Helena! Her shoulders sagged forlornly. Then they straightened, and an arm rose. “Severn! Eduardo!” The echo of her voice flew over the water to pierce his heart.

  “Helena! Darling!” he called, to the amusement of the dockworkers and people come to see a friend off. “I love you.”

  Her hands rose to her lips. A smile beamed through her tears. “I am coming back!” she called.

  “No, don’t jump!”

  Helena turned and left the deck.

  Severn stood, undecided. Knowing her impetuosity, he feared she meant to jump overboard. He looked at the ship, trying to gauge its distance from shore and its speed. It was not so very far. He could swim a little. He looked down at the roiling, treacherous waters, and his heart froze. He who hesitates is lost.

  Without further thought, he plunged into the water, feet first. The deep, dark, cold waves closed over him and he went down, down, until he thought he would never rise again. When he finally bobbed back to the surface, he began trying to splash his way toward the ship. Great waves rose up to inundate him. His boots filled with water, and his sodden clothes dragged him down.

  “Gorblimey!” a dockworker exclaimed, and tossed him a cork float. Severn grabbed on to it and found it kept him afloat. By gripping it between his hands and kicking, he made some headway, but he could not seem to get any nearer the ship. He felt an utter fool and was about to abandon his quixotic quest when he saw a small rowboat coming toward him. One sailor was at the oars, and standing at the prow like a Valkyrie carving come to life was Helena, waving furiously. He could not make out whether she was laughing or crying.

  When the small boat had drawn alongside, the sailor hauled him aboard, very nearly capsizing the boat in the process. Helena threw her arms around him. “Eduardo! How gallant!” she said, laughing through her tears. “You do love me! Why could you not have told me sooner?”

  “I have loved you to distraction for weeks. And don’t you dare laugh at me, you wretch!” he said, crushing her against his soaking body for a ruthless kiss. A loud roar of approval rose up from the throng on the dock. Word of his folly was bound to reach society’s ears. Lord Severn, jumping into the Thames and trying to outrun a frigate, for the sake of love. Some chancellor he would make! He pushed the thought aside.

  Helena drew back and gazed lovingly at him.

  “Oh, Eduardo, you were magnífico,” she murmured. “Never will I forget it. You risked certain death for me, and I thought you were cold.”

  “I am cold,” he said as a shiver seized him.

  “So English, ignoring praise. I shall try very hard to become accustomed to your restrained ways.”

  “Don’t you dare change,” he said, squeezing her fingers. “I love you just as you are. Of course, you must marry me at once, to save my reputation.”

  “Of course,” she said dreamily. “You will wear a bordeaux jacket with Mechlin lace.”

  “Why not?” He laughed. “Why not?” He sensed that his new life would not be quite so settled as he had feared, and he was heartily grateful.

  But for her, he might have become Papa. Now he was a gallant, in love with and loved by the most beautiful lady in England. Why should he not wear a bordeaux jacket, if it would please her?

  Helena put her hand trustingly in his. “I did not think you would come, but I hoped right till the last minute.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, too happy to find words.

  Copyright © 1993 by Joan Smith

  Originally published by Fawcett Crest [ISBN 978-0449221419]

  Electronically published in 2016 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.