More astounding yet, Sarah even smiled occasionally at the chevalier and allowed him more than once to accompany her and Lady Amelia on a stroll around the gardens. For this diversion Rosalind was so relieved that she did not even stop to consider the reasons behind it, simply remaining grateful for the moments she did not feel the chevalier’s dark eyes boring into her, for the brief space of time when she did not feel like some poor rabbit mesmerized by the serpent’s stare. The marchioness did her best to avoid the chevalier’s company by flirting with Lord Edgecumbe and even the Duke of Coltishall—an old stick if ever there was one—but distract herself as she would she was constantly aware of the Frenchman’s menacing presence.
For several days no dispatches arrived from London, a situation that kept the chevalier from seeking Rosalind out. However, she knew that it was only a matter of time before something arrived for Lord Edgecumbe, who would then consult with her husband, and the chevalier would be pressing her once again for the details. Oh, why had Alistair returned to London when she was so desperate for his aid? Whatever was she to do?
Rosalind had almost entirely forgotten that Lord Farringdon had promised help from Sarah and was thus taken completely by surprise when her sister-in-law sought her out several days later in the morning room. Rosalind had just finished conferring with Mrs. Dawlish and had given her instructions for the staff that day. She was in no mood to see anyone, but Sarah had just received a message from the earl that brooked no delay.
In a way Sarah had been relieved as much for Rosalind as for herself when the letter arrived, delivered by a mud-spattered courier who had insisted on handing it personally to the lady of the house, refused all offers of refreshment, and sped on his way without even descending from his horse.
“My dear Lady Sarah,” the letter began, “I have done my utmost to execute your commissions in London, but to the best of my abilities I have been unable to locate the Spanish history you requested. There was reputedly an eight-volume set for sale, but on further inquiry it was discovered to be nonexistent. Not a single volume is to be had. As you can see, it is rather difficult to come by, and I have my doubts as to being able to discover one for quite some time in the future. Please accept my apologies in this matter. I find that I have been tolerably well amused here, having attended the Kembles’ benefit performance of The School for Scandal and a concert in the New Rooms, performed by Master Pio Cianchenini. On the program was a most excellent quintet of Beethoven, which I make no doubt you would have enjoyed extremely. Surely, someone who plays Mozart as finely as you must also take pleasure in the works of Beethoven. I hope this finds you in good health and spirits. Again my apologies for failing to carry out your instructions. I shall continue in my endeavors to locate the books you wished. Believe me, I am yours to command, Farringdon.”
Sarah had been unable to ignore the strange attack of breathlessness that swept over her when she saw the thick black strokes of ink on the rich cream-colored paper. Even the earl’s writing was forceful and energetic, and it made her realize just how much she missed his vitality among the rather dull little group they now made at Cranleigh. Pushing such treacherous thoughts out of her mind, she had changed quickly into her riding habit, ordered Ajax to be saddled and brought around, and had ridden over to call on Rosalind.
“I beg your pardon for intruding upon you at such a busy time,” Sarah apologized as Rosalind, ensconced in a comfortable chair in the morning room, looked up in annoyance from the stack of letters she was perusing, “but I have some news that is of interest to you.” Giving her sister-in-law no time to reply, she closed the door behind her and sank into the chair closest to the marchioness.
Dropping her voice to a whisper, Sarah continued, “I have heard from the Earl of Burnleigh, who begs me to instruct you to report that no more troops are being dispatched at present, nor are they likely to be in the future.” Of course there had not been the slightest reference to the Marchioness of Cranleigh in the letter, but Sarah, sensing her sister-in-law’s antagonism, improvised, hoping to soften the unpleasant necessity of having Sarah as intermediary. “In addition, the earl begs me to assure you that he is most concerned for your welfare.”
She had judged the situation to a nicety, and, hearing the message couched in such terms, Rosalind’s hostility lessened somewhat. “That may be all very well and good for his lordship, but what I am to do with that information I have not the least notion,” she replied pettishly.
This was not going to be easy. Sarah had no particular love for her sister-in-law, but she could understand how Rosalind would find it difficult to accept assistance of any sort from her. “I would think it most sensible,” Sarah began tentatively, “to await the arrival of further dispatches from London and then pass this message to the chevalier when he demands to know the contents of the dispatches.”
She spoke calmly, as if such matters were an everyday occurrence instead of something that was obviously troubling the marchioness. In truth, Rosalind looked as hagged as Sarah had ever seen her. The bluish circles under the dark eyes were testimony to sleepless nights. Her skin was quite pale with fatigue and had entirely lost its normal pearly glow. Sarah could not help feeling just the tiniest bit sorry for her. After all, Rosalind had not asked to be put in this uncomfortable position; someone was forcing her to do this. It must be something quite dreadful and extremely upsetting that was being held over her head in order to make her do such a thing.
“Yes, you are right.” Rosalind sighed. “But that is only for this time. What shall I do the next, and the next one after that?” Her voice rose in desperation, and she twisted her hands in her lap.
“Well, I am sure that by then Lord Farringdon will have figured everything out and contrived to rid us all of the chevalier’s, er, charming presence,” Sarah replied reasonably. “I should not worry if I were you. He appears to be quite a resourceful person.”
This suggestion seemed to find favor with the marchioness, who stopped wringing her hands at the mention of the earl’s name. However, the idea of the chevalier continued to make her uneasy. “But you do not know the Chevalier d’Evron, Sarah. He will stop at nothing. He cares for no one. It does not make a jot of difference to him if he ruins me.” Rosalind rubbed her temples, which were beginning to ache most dreadfully.
“Surely you are mistaken,” Sarah contradicted her gently. Rosalind was vain and selfish, but Sarah could not conceive of her being anything worse than that. Surely, she could have no secrets that would ruin her if revealed. It could not be debts. True, she was extravagant and Harold was inclined to be clutch-fisted, but he was also far too proud to allow his wife to find herself in dun territory. Nor did she gamble as many women did. No, Rosalind was far too interested in masculine attention to waste time at the card table when she could have been listening to sweet nothings murmured in her ear by a besotted beau. Nor did Sarah think she was being blackmailed over a lover. Rosalind was not the sort to indulge in anything more serious than a light flirtation. So what was it that gave the chevalier such power over her?
“No”—the marchioness shook her head so vigorously the dark curls danced—“I am not. You do not know the ton as I do, Sarah, They will not forgive the slightest misstep from one of its members or even one of its member’s family.”
“Richard!” Sarah breathed. “I knew it was Richard.” Rosalind’s eyes widened in alarm, and Sarah hastened to reassure her. “Do not worry. I feel certain that Lord Farringdon can take care of any hold that the chevalier may have over your brother. But truly, Rosalind, everyone knows what sort of person Richard is. They would not look askance at you for...” A glance at her sister-in-law surprised a look on her face that Sarah had never seen there before. What was it? Was it sadness, fear? Then she realized that Rosalind actually did care what happened to that scapegrace brother of hers. Of all the queer starts, this was the one she had expected the least. All of a sudden Sarah felt very sorry for Rosalind, indeed. Raised in a household of weak, self-cen
tered men, she had been forced to fend for herself, using the only thing she had—her startling beauty. And even that had not been enough to compensate for the failings of her relatives, for Harold had been her only means of escape, and Sarah knew how discouraging that prospect was.
Sarah rose briskly, remarking, “Richard has caused you enough heartache, Rosalind. It is high time he fended for himself. When we get ourselves out of this coil, I shall make sure that someone, probably Lord Farringdon, takes him in hand. Now if you will excuse me, I have some visits to make in the village.” With these parting words Sarah rose, gathered her gloves and hat, and hurried out.
Chapter Twenty-seven
For a moment Rosalind was too astonished to think. What had Sarah said? “When we get ourselves out of this coil...” The marchioness could never remember that Sarah had ever been anything but eager to quit her company, yet here she was helping her in what was perhaps the most difficult situation Rosalind had yet faced in her life. Furthermore, Sarah was even offering to help her, knowing all about the wretched business with the chevalier. Rosalind could not recall anyone ever having offered her assistance or sympathy of any kind, and she could not help but be touched by it. To think that anyone cared what happened to her—for whatever reasons—was a most novel and surprisingly pleasant experience.
In addition, and much as she hated to admit it, the marchioness was impressed at how quickly her sister-in-law grasped the difficulties of her situation and how readily she offered up solutions. Rosalind had always known that Sarah was clever in a rather blue sort of way, but she had never expected anything practical from it or to have her demonstrate the quick energetic sort of intelligence that the marchioness generally associated with men of Lord Farringdon’s stamp. Maybe Sarah was more than she had given her credit for. Maybe she was not such a mealy-mouthed prudish little miss as Rosalind had always assumed her to be.
The marchioness rose slowly and thoughtfully to make her way toward her bedchamber, where the long-suffering Framling was waiting to soothe her mistress’s aching temples with lavender water, brush out her hair, and arrange it in a coiffure sure to dazzle the assembled company later on that afternoon. In the meantime there seemed to be nothing to do but wait with as much patience as she could muster, avoiding the chevalier as well as she could until more dispatches arrived from London. At least this time she knew the information she had to pass along and would not have to extract it from Harold. That was a good thing, for the less she had to speak to her husband the better.
At the thought of the stodgy Harold, Rosalind sighed. There was no doubt that it was a trial for a witty beautiful woman to have such a husband. If only Lord Farringdon had come up to scratch. However, there was no use repining; what was past was past, and an attractive lover was almost as useful, and certainly far more exciting than a husband. Rosalind had had her doubts about catching the Earl of Burnleigh in the parson’s mousetrap, but she had none about adding him to her permanent court of admirers. She brightened at the thought. Mourning would be over, and she would be in London again where anything could happen.
In London at that very moment the subject of all this plotting was at his quarters in Mount Street, ensconced in a deep chair in front of the fire, idly scanning The Morning Post without realty absorbing what he was reading, for his thoughts were on Sarah, wondering what she was doing, how she was managing to handle Rosalind, and whether she was putting herself at risk by trying to keep her eye on the chevalier.
On a sudden impulse the earl got up and walked to his desk, which was awash in papers, journals, and correspondence. Rummaging through it, he at last pulled out the issue of The Edinburgh Review with the review of Mr. Broadhurst’s work, Advice to Young Ladies on the Improvement of the Mind. He had been longing to peruse it ever since he had seen it in the library at Ashworth, along with letters addressed to the author of the review. Poring over it, he slowly made his way back to his chair. Yes, the phrasing and the energy were all Sarah’s, and it was a topic sure to be dear to her heart. She must be the author. What other explanation was there for the letters he had seen on her desk that night at Ashworth? What a woman she was—the only woman he had ever known who improved upon acquaintance.
The more he learned about her, the more he admired her and wished he could do something for her, something to make her life more the sort of life she would like it to be. It seemed such a pity that a fine mind and spirit like hers were wasting away in the countryside when there was such a crying need for people just like Sarah to address the many problems besetting the country.
To be sure, she was contributing in a fashion through her writing, but it was so very little compared to what she could do. He knew that she scorned the empty world of the ton, but he would like to be able to introduce her to the few people whose acquaintance he did value—men of vision and ambition who were making valuable contributions to their world.
How much he wanted to give her all of that, and how little he could do for her, independent little thing that she was. Alistair finished the article and laid it aside, sighing as he did so. He missed her in a way that he had never missed anyone before. Ignored by his parents, he had spent a lonely boyhood with no one but his horses and dogs for companionship. At school and at university he had still felt set apart from the rest of his schoolmates, who all had brothers and sisters and who all seemed to know each other. Of course, he had covered up the loneliness by acting more daringly and more outrageously than all of them put together, thus winning their attention and respect, but never really their friendship. In truth, he had not been that eager to be friends with most of them, who wasted their time in aimless pursuit of amusement and were satisfied with trivialities. Alistair, too, had gone in search of pleasure, but he had done it in a slightly different manner, pitting his mind and body against ever increasing odds in curricle races, pugilistic matches, or any feat that required both skill and daring. However, the difference between him and the rest of the gay young blades was that he was ever striving to improve his wits and athletic prowess, always competing against himself to become better at everything. No one else he knew could even recognize this search for perfection in what seemed reckless abandon, much less understand or appreciate it, so he had done his best to cover up his rather disturbing intensity with an air of indifference and cynicism, a languid boredom that carefully hid these private parts of his character from all but a few people.
In Sarah he sensed that same sort of person—a person with restless energy, always seeking to learn, to grow, and to improve in whatever endeavor she threw herself into. He missed being around her, missed being with someone to whom he had to say very little to make himself understood, missed being with someone whose similarity of view only enhanced everything he experienced.
Thinking of Sarah brought Alistair back to the chevalier and the present. The earl had gone directly to Whitehall upon arriving in London, where his report was greeted with grudging interest by those there who had refused to believe that a man as gentlemanly and as widely accepted as the chevalier could stoop so low. “Those damned Frenchies have no honor whatsoever,” Sir Thomas Belford had growled, “To send a man among us who does not even have the courage to wear a uniform is a low scoundrelly trick. This spying thing”—his beetling dark brows snapped together in a thunderous frown— “is a damned poor way to conduct a war. Shameful, I say, shameful.” He snorted and looked accusingly at Alistair. “I say that no true soldier would stoop to such a thing.”
The earl had kept his temper in check with difficulty, muttering darkly to himself instead, no true soldier would blindly follow the orders of a fool like you only to find himself slaughtered as your troops in Portugal were. Alistair had restrained himself with difficulty, but then such an attitude was nothing more than he was accustomed to. The very men who could most use the information he risked his neck to procure considered him and his efforts to be beneath contempt—so much so that they ignored it to their peril as Sir Thomas had. A bluff old gentleman
with more bottom than sense, Sir Thomas had refused to employ any type of strategy in the Peninsula, throwing his men instead in wave after wave of useless assaults against a superior force of French. His troops hated him, and finally his superiors had been forced to admit his bullheaded stupidity was costing them good men and sent him out of harm’s way to Whitehall, where he could harass people instead of kill them. That such a buffleheaded blowhard should treat Alistair in such a condescending way was infuriating beyond belief, but the earl knew that at least Wellington and his best generals had a healthy respect for all that he and others discovered, which was why Alistair was alone in London while most of the other members of the Depot of Military Knowledge—Sir George Murray, Colquhoun Grant, Andrew Leith Hay—were all in the Peninsula.
Thinking over his interview with Sir Thomas, Alistair sighed again. Now he was going to have to go back to Whitehall, hat in hand, to beg them to supply additional help to ensure Sarah’s safety. If he could not be there to watch over her himself, then he needed someone there he could trust who could send him reports on a regular basis. He needed someone like Ferdie Summers, a likely looking lad who had helped him with the capture of several French agents the previous year. Lieutenant Summers was one of the few good men who had not been sent to the Peninsula, but was languishing on guard duty and bemoaning the lack of action in his life. In fact, just the day before Alistair had left for Cranleigh, he had shared a bottle of port with the lieutenant at Brooks’s and listened to him complain about the stifling boredom of barracks life. “Can’t I do anything with you, Farringdon?” the young man had begged. “I shall go mad here if they don’t ship us out soon.” Now Alistair had the perfect solution to the young man’s dilemma.
The Reluctant Heiress Page 21