by Regina Darcy
His name had been used all across England to prod children into the sort of fear that would keep them from misbehaving, or wandering out beyond permitted boundaries, or doing any deed which their nannies and governesses did not wish them to do.
“I have read that Napoleon suffers from a malady of the internal organs and is not expected to live long.”
John Orville, the Earl of Oakland looked at her and frowned. “What are you reading that you would learn of this?”
“Why, the newspapers of course,” she replied with a frown of her own.
Where else would she learn of it? She was not privy to the private information of government officials who kept close tabs on the health and life of the disgraced and exiled Bonaparte.
“Your brother should not permit you to read newspapers,” Lord Oakland said. “When we are married, I will not permit it. Newspapers are not suitable for ladies. Do not scowl, it will leave lines on your face.”
Frederica raised an eyebrow.
“Come, my lady, we are being observed. Smile as a betrothed woman ought to smile when in the presence of her beloved.”
Frederica obliged him with a rictus of frightening proportions. Her full lips were distorted in the facsimile of an expression of mirth which, when adjoined to the sudden intensity of a mad dazzle in her indigo eyes, bestowed upon her the visage of a woman who belonged in a lunatic asylum.
Making faces was one of Frederica’s favourite pastime, one in which she had indulged in throughout childhood, chiefly to annoy her brother Rowland and amuse her cousin Petronella.
Lord Oakland frowned again. “It is no wonder that you have not married,” he said. “You are disobliging.”
“So my brother says,” she replied.
Her brother, the Marquess of Cumbershire had said much more than that. He had told her that there would be no more refusing suitors. She would marry Lord Oakland or she would find herself in a nunnery. He was done with coddling her disobedience and her unfeminine pastimes. She was two and twenty years of age and past the time when she could consider herself a belle.
When Frederica protested that such a thought had never entered her mind and that she was unmarried because she had not met a man she thought to be her mental equal, Rowland had angrily retorted that she had a far too elevated opinion of herself and she needed to be brought back to her station.
She was a woman and therefore not capable of making such important decisions on her own, he had declared.
Frederica thoroughly disagreed, but she was his sister and as such, obliged to look to him for guidance, and to accept his instructions. On those final words, he had walk away and left her to contemplate on her fate.
And here they were, Frederica thought drearily, riding in Hyde Park so that all of London could see Lord Oakland, portly, pompous and dull, with his bride-to-be.
Frederica was not vain, but she was well aware that a middle-aged man appreciated the attention generated when he was going to marry a younger woman. She grimaced.
Why, in the name of God, had Rowland subjected her to this? Just because she was particular about her suitors and disinclined to accept one merely because he was heir to a dukedom, or another because his family had vast holdings all across the Empire, why should she be punished?
It was unfair, Frederica fumed internally, that women had so little power over their own lives. Fathers and brothers and sons decided the fates of the women they claimed to love and care for. It was pure balderdash; they didn’t care for the women at all, she thought. They cared for power. And it was so easy to have power over women, for the law accorded none to the fairer sex.
She wondered how Lord Oakland would react should she be so bold as to introduce the topic of rights for women into the conversation, referencing the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft as she did so. It would be amusing in theory—she could imagine Cousin Petronella’s lips curling up in mirth at the very thought of it—but she would not counsel the action, as Lord Oakland did not approve of liberties for females in general and Mrs Wollstonecraft in particular . If he ever found out that Frederica had read A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, he would certainly scold her for her audacity in reading such an outrageous piece of literature. And then he would tell her brother.
She sighed.
It would only serve to stir another lecture, something which Lord Oakland greatly relished doing. Perhaps Rowland had selected Lord Oakland as her betrothed because he had met the man most likely to continue to administer the lectures which, although there were only five years between them, her brother had delivered continuously during her upbringing.
She was, she knew, Rowland having told her, a dreadful disappointment to him and to the family. After four seasons, she had not managed to procure a husband. Not for lack of offers, oh, no, that was not the case. It was because she was so “abominably strong-minded” her brother had told her. As if it were somehow a virtue to be weak-minded.
“Hyde Park is lovely at this time of year,” Lord Oakland stated. It was the sort of comment which he regarded as scintillating conversation, but because he had introduced the topic, Frederica knew that it was held to be her duty to continue the theme. As they had already discussed the loveliness of Hyde Park in autumn on four successive evenings, she did not perceive what new facet of its beauty she could devise.
“Yes,” she said with no further comment.
She did not see his frown because she was not looking at him, but she could hear the frown in his tone. “You have nothing more to say?”
“Yes, Hyde Park is lovely at this time of year.”
She failed to suppress a yawn as she replied.
“You are lacking in energy, Lady Beecham. How do you propose to administer my household when we are wed if an evening ride in Hyde Park fails to stir your vigour?”
“The same way that I administer my brother’s household,” she replied, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the impertinence in her comment.
Lord Oakland scowled. “I assure you,” he said, “I am not inclined to allow you to enjoy the same sort of liberties that the Marquess gives you,” he told her sternly. “As my wife, you must uphold the highest standards; you must be like Caesar’s wife, for I am a gentleman of no small importance in the City. . .”
His voice droned on. Frederica stifled a yawn. If she fell asleep in the carriage at his side, the wedding must needs be hurried up, for such an event would occasion a scandal. She tried to force her eyelids wider. The effect soothed Lord Oakland, who interpreted her look to be one of obedience and docility.
“That is better,” he said. Spotting the Guard House through the window, he signalled for the driver to halt. “I am obliged to attend to matters of nature,” he said stiffly as the driver opened the carriage door.
Dear God, she muttered as she watched him retreat from the carriage, the driver not far behind on the same errand, was she to be treated next to a tedious discourse regarding his bladder? She had listened the evening before to the tribulations he suffered from gout and as she listened to his words with an expressionless face and a wandering mind, she had briefly wondered if she would be his nursemaid during these episodes of malady.
Perhaps she would put a sleeping draught in his tea upon those times, she thought. That might provide her with respite, and she could simply claim that she had no idea why he had fallen asleep. Sleep was good for those suffering from illness, surely.
She was intent upon staring out the window, watching to see when Lord Oakland and the driver would return and deprive her of this rare solitude when suddenly, the sound of the carriage door opening intruded upon her privacy. She turned to look and gasped.
A man had entered the carriage, flinging himself inside, and was positioning himself upon her, his lean frame stretched across the carriage seat as he removed a spyglass from his greatcoat.
He put his finger to his lips, signalling her not to speak. She could not have formed a single word in any case.
He was quite unlike anyo
ne she had ever met. There was a scar circling one side of his face from his left temple to his chin, an alarming sight, to be sure. But his features were not at all displeasing. He was gifted with an abundance of dark hair, tousled beneath his hat, and deep grey eyes which brought to mind the appearance of the sky when storms, long withheld, were about to break forth from the clouds.
His body was sinewy and trim; this was not proper for a young lady to notice, but Frederica could not help but observe that the intruder had the form of a man who was athletic and able, not portly, slothful and out of breath.
Her heart began to beat faster. It was a frightening event, to be sure, to suddenly find herself at the mercy of a stranger with an appealing, masculine manner and body.
But she sensed that it was not his intention to do her harm. She felt her face flush although she was quite unsure as to the reason why.
The stranger muttered something under his breath, although Frederica was certain that she heard language which would have been judged unsuitable had a woman uttered the words.
“Who are you?” she asked him.
“Devon,” he replied, thrusting the word from his lips as if it were a gauntlet. “George Devon. The Earl of Gilberton,” he replied with a raised eyebrow “There, you know who I am. More importantly your brother knows who I am.” He brushed off an invisible dust speck off his lapel. How he managed to do that without looking ridiculous lying halfway on top of her she did not know.
“The Marquess of Cumbershire, your brother is behind a scheme to see me imprisoned for crimes I did not commit,” he continued in a clipped voice.
Frederica lowered her eyelashes.
She was the possessor of remarkable eyes of a shade of blue so dark that they seemed to have been dyed indigo. But rarely did she use them to their full effect unless it was to confound a particularly daft gentleman. Those eyes widened now at the intruder’s words. As she raised her gaze and locked it with his, she made sure he received a good dose of her intensive stare.
“Sir. What reason do you have for making such a claim?”
To her surprise and consternation, the man did not react whatsoever to the batting of her eyelashes or her indignant question. Instead he reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and pulled forth his card.
“Come see me, if you dare,” he said, issuing a challenge with his words and his eyes. “I shall tell you what I know.” he sat up from her lap, his posture suddenly straight as a soldier’s.
He looked her up and down, a knowing smile emerging on his lips. The intensity of his gaze matched that which she had thrown in his direction only moments earlier.
She held her breath.
“I suspect that you are more wildcat than you appear. I can provide you with a diversion.” His voice was as smooth as silk, there was no way of misinterpreting what he was implying. “Should you tire of the company of your prattling bore of a fiancé, may I offer myself as an alternative?”
Frederica’s cheeks flared red. She could not remember the last time anyone had left her so flummoxed that she blushed. A smile flashed swiftly across the man’s face, taking the menace out of his scar and completely transforming his face from handsome to mesmerising. “Adieu,” he said and opened the carriage door, bolting out of it only moments before she spied Lord Oakland, and the driver approaching.
Lord Oakland, entered the carriage with his familiar huffing and puffing from the exertion of walking to his destination and back, and looked at her curiously.
“What is amiss?” he asked sharply.
Immediately Frederica rearranged her features into an expression of demure blandness.
“Why, whatever do you mean, Lord Oakland?” she inquired. “I have been sitting here alone, unattended, unprotected, while you were off attending to calls of nature. I am relieved that I was not accosted by brigands during the time that you were away. I might have been abducted by kidnappers who, mindful of your great station, could have held me for ransom. You know that there have been instances of brides disappearing before the vows were ever exchanged. While you were away, I could not but be alarmed at the ominous possibilities which threatened my unprotected virtue.”
Her words were not only meant to chastised but also to mock the fact that her brother had without hesitation permitted her on several occasions to travel with Lord Oakland, without a chaperone.
Lord Oakland appeared alarmed by her words, but none-the-wiser to her double entendre.
“You said nothing of this last night,” he accused her. “Or the night before, when we stopped upon the same errand.”
“I am but a weak female,” she replied, lowering her eyes so that he could not see the spark of mischief in her eyes. “It did not occur to me until tonight how greatly I am dependent upon your superior strength and wisdom should we be attacked. You do not carry a sword, Lord Oakland, I notice. Do you not think that you ought to bring a weapon with you? London is rife with cutthroats, thieves, pickpockets, villains and knaves, as you know, having described the population in such terms frequently to me. Would you allow yourself to be felled by such as these? You risk death at every turn when we come out to ride in the evening in this manner. What if your actions are being watched? What if there exists a man who wishes to do you ill and is well aware of your habits?”
“You are entirely too fanciful,” Lord Oakland growled, although there lurked in his mind the thought that perhaps his betrothed was correct, even though it was female whimsy and not actual acuity of intellect which inspired her speech. “I am well able to handle myself, and to protect you as well.”
“Without a weapon?” she asked, struggling to conceal a mischievous smile.
Lord Oakland did not know that her brother had taught her, in the long-ago days before their parents had died and he had become the stern, cold, manipulative guardian of her person, the art of swordplay.
It was not a fact which Rowland would have allowed her to divulge and she knew that he preferred to forget that such lessons had ever taken place. But Frederica remembered the heft of the sword in her hand and the lethal whispers that it made as she had yielded it in makeshift defence.
Unknown to Rowland, she regularly took his sword from its sheath to practice so that she did not lose her skill; those sessions were conducted when he was away from home and she could count on his absence and upon the disinclination of the servants to intrude upon her when she was at her leisure.
“I am not without defence skills,” Lord Oakland said, making fists of his hands as if they would serve such purpose should they be accosted by a threat.
She looked at his fists, the pudgy fingers clasped like so many pink sausages within the plump palms of his hands.
“I should feel safer if you carried a sword,” she answered.
The insult was so lightly issued that he was able to convince himself, later that night, after he had returned her to her brother’s home and was in his own house again, that she had spoken out of concern for his welfare and not out of doubt that he could protect her from danger.
It was ludicrous to even think, he ruminated after his valet had undressed him and readied him for bed, that a chit of two-and-twenty, one discarded in the marriage market and without an engagement after four successive seasons, would dare to utter a disparaging comment against the man who was willing to rescue her from spinsterhood.
She was fearful, that was all. Her comments revealed the truth. Despite her unsuitable predilection for reading newspapers and offering opinions on matters best left to gentlemen of bearing and breeding, she was as timid as any other lady.
For a moment, Lord Oakland forgot his straining bladder and the ache in his big toe.
Lady Beecham feared for his safety. She wished him well and depended upon him for her safety. It was a remarkable revelation, that this spirited young woman should expose the frailty of her nature.
His chest puffed out with manly pride as he considered the transformation that was taking place. He had put bit to bridle to curb h
er headstrong manner. Her brother had failed to do so, proving that it required the wisdom and will of a man of older years, a man of eight-and-thirty, to tame a young, wilful maid.
He was no swordsman, but his betrothed need not discover that fact. He would carry a sword from now on, in order to assure her that she was quite safe when he was with her. It was a small matter to purchase such a weapon and it would certainly add lustre to his status. He pictured himself, sword at his hip, sheathed but ready to be drawn when danger reared.
But what if danger truly did draw nigh? In the darkness, Lord Oakland pulled up the coverlets, quailing at the thought of being expected to wield a weapon which was well beyond his skills. It had been many years since his days with a fencing master and, truth be told, his girth even as a youth had prevented him from presenting himself with the necessary dexterity and fluidity required for impressive swordsmanship.
Perhaps a pistol, he thought hopefully. He could carry it close by, the mere presence of a pistol might force thieves to reconsider their evil intentions if they intended to rob him and avail themselves of his bride-to-be’s attractions. He had merely to shoot it and they would disperse, Lord Oakland thought confidently. Besides, the noise of the shot would attract attention and likely summon a constable.
Yes, a pistol, Lord Oakland nodded to himself behind the bed-curtains. It was just the thing. He would instruct his carriage driver to see to it at once. After all, if they were set upon by malefactors, it would be Griffin, the driver, who would be their first target. Better to arm Griffin, who had some skill at arms, at least in terms of hunting rabbits and squirrels for his family’s dining, so that he could fulfil the extent of his duties in keeping the carriage’s occupants from harm.
Lord Oakland drew a relieved breath. He’d hit upon it, the very answer to reassure his fainthearted bride while maintaining his own stature without risking his manhood in a test of arms. It was exactly what he would do. Lady Beecham, he foresaw, would be brought to heel by the limitations of her sex, which made her, as God intended, subservient to his manly superiority.