Company Of Rogues: An Unwilling Bride Part 26

"No. With trepidation."

"If he is not to her taste, she would be well-advised to reject her suitor unless she puts money before other considerations."

"Her parents do."

"Yes, I hear Greystone's rolled up," he said off-handedly.

Beth wondered why he had come, if it was of significance. An awkward silence was growing, and so she picked up the topic, hoping for some worldly wisdom. "It seems a shame for the girl to be sacrificed for her family's sake."

He shrugged. "For her sake, too, surely. If the money's all gone, she'll end up as a governess if she's lucky. Marriage is preferable to that."

This was pragmatic and possibly true. It irritated Beth. "There should be some better way. No woman should be so forced-"

She broke off as he rose angrily to his feet. "I wondered why you were so obsessed by this silly chit. I am sorry, my lady, I have no mind to sit and have guilt heaped on my head again."

With that he walked sway out of the room.

Beth sat stunned.

Was that what he thought? That she was cold to him because she still harbored a grievance about her marriage? In one sense it was true-she would never feel comfortable with the way she had been forced to act against her will. But any tendency to blame Lucien had died weeks ago.

She saw how destructive her present behavior was. Nothing was less likely to detach the marquess from his mistress than being refused his wife's marriage bed and given only cold words. Her thought processes were even more tangled than poor Laura Montreville's. Laura at least had a clear line of thought, no matter how unrealistic. Beth could not persuade herself that she had been operating on logic at all, which was very galling for someone who prided herself upon her intellect. Looked at objectively, her husband had been kind and considerate throughout. If he could not love her, there was no blame in that. He was willing to be as loving as was in his power.

She forced herself to acknowledge that she had been motivated by that base emotion, jealousy. Jealousy because she wanted more than kindness, more than friendship. She wanted him to return her love.

She loved him.

Beth took a deep steadying breath. How foolish, how very foolish to have succ.u.mbed, and how useless to expect him to reciprocate. What on earth was she to do?

If she were free, Beth would have put herself as far away from the marquess as possible. What other sane course was there for a woman besotted by a man who merely found her bearable? That choice was not available. The only other thing to do was to fight. Impossible as it might seem she must gamble that she could one day gain his love, and undoubtedly the first step to that was the consummation of the marriage. The unnaturalness of their lives and her own anxiety and longings hung like the sword of Damocles over them.

Being a logical woman, Beth resolved to sort this all out in the straightforward way, in writing.

It was not quite as easy as she had hoped. One problem was that she felt it necessary to be discreet in case the note should be read by a third party. Another was deciding quite how much she was willing to say. She could not even think how to start it. My lord? My Lord Marquess? Lucien?

Eventually she wrote, My dear husband. That at least addressed the point in question.

At your convenience, she wrote at last, I would wish to speak to you in my bedroom on a matter of importance. Postponing matters in the hope of change in me seems unlikely to lead to success. Perhaps the elimination of anxiety in that respect would serve us better.

There. That seemed clear enough, and if he were in any doubt, the word bedroom should eliminate it. She signed it, Beth folded it, and sealed it thoroughly, stamping the wax with the de Vaux arms.

Then she felt a strong urge to tear it into tiny pieces and dispose of it somewhere.

She would not let herself play the coward at this point, however. She left the note on his shaving stand in his dressing room. It was only later she was informed he would not be in for dinner that evening but was engaged with friends.

Friends? What friends? Beth fought and won a battle with raging jealousy. There was no reason for him not to be at the Delaneys. She pleaded tiredness and canceled all her own engagements so as to be at hand when he finally read the note.

She could not help but be disappointed that he was out of the house indefinitely. Too late she knew she could have chosen her moment more carefully, but what was done was done. She had no intention of trying to retrieve her letter.

She prepared for bed that night with care and in a state of nervous antic.i.p.ation, wishing she could ask Hughes whether her husband had been in the house since the afternoon and whether he had read the note.

Would he come?

How late would he be?

If she fell asleep would he just go away?

Despite her efforts, she fell asleep and had no way of knowing whether he had come or not.

When she woke the next morning she was the victim of sick anxiety. How was she to stand another day of waiting? Would he come to her to discuss the matter in broad daylight? That seemed horrible to Beth, so detached and coldblooded, when she wanted to regain the pa.s.sion she had so briefly known.

Beth had no need of pretense to appear to be under the weather. She breakfasted in her room, waiting for the tap on the door which might signal a visit from her husband. At midday she discovered he had returned home in the early hours, slept, breakfasted, and gone out. He must, at least, have got her note by now. What, oh what, had been his reaction, and what was she to read into the fact that he had not come to speak with her?

Was it of such small significance to him?

Perhaps, Beth thought bitterly, she should not have said, "At your convenience."

She had to escape from the house, and so she went for a long walk accompanied by her maid. She attempted once or twice to strike up a conversation with the woman, but Redcliff, though obviously fond of her mistress, was determined to keep to her place and never encouraged familiarities.

They were nearly home again when a young man hurried over to them. "Your ladyship," he said.

Redcliff moved forward as if to drive him off but, with astonishment, Beth recognized Clarissa in boy's clothing and stopped the maid.

"What is it, Charles?" she asked, hoping the girl had the wits to go along.

Clarissa looked at the end of her tether, but she tried. "I need to speak to you," she whispered. "I have run away from home."

"Oh, lord," muttered Beth, "why now?" But Clarissa was so distraught it was unthinkable to abandon her. The only possibility was to take the maid into their confidence. Beth explained the situation in brief and asked the maid to keep the secret.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Redcliff. "It isn't right, milady."

"Right or not, I intend to help Clarissa," said Beth firmly.

The maid clucked in disapproval but reluctantly agreed to be an accomplice.

"We cannot stand in the street like this," said Beth. "The question is, Redcliff, can we get Miss Greystone into the house without her being seen? Her parents will soon set up a hue and cry."

The maid's face was set in lines of rigid disapproval, but she said, "There is a side door, my lady, for the coal deliveries, and a back stairs up from there. If it is unlocked we could probably get to your rooms without being seen."

"Very well," said Beth. "Lead on."

Belcraven House stood detached from the other nearby houses, but there was only a narrow pa.s.sage down the side, wide enough for a cart. Along that pa.s.sage was the doorway. It proved to be unlocked.

The door and floor were sooty, and all three ladies eased their way carefully through the small hall and up the narrow, bare-wood staircase. Eventually, the maid led them through a green baize door into the sudden opulence of the corridor off which the bedrooms opened. Beth wondered how many of those bleak little staircases there were to enable the servants to care for the house without intruding in the lives of their employers.

Once in the boudoir Clarissa pulled off the old-fashioned tricorne she wore and tossed it into a corner. She was pale and close to hysterics. "Oh Beth! Lord Deveril came today to offer for me!"

"Well, really, Clarissa," said Beth impatiently, for she knew they were in a pickle, "could you have not appeared to comply? I haven't had time to make any plans."

"I did," wailed the girl, bursting into tears. She pulled at her loose cravat and used the ends to wipe her eyes. "And then... and then my mother left us! He... he kissed me!"

Beth looked at the girl with appalled commiseration.

"I threw up my breakfast over him," added Clarissa, not without a touch of satisfaction.

"You didn't!" Beth gasped and began to laugh. "Oh Clarissa. What happened then?"

"Everyone was dreadfully angry," the girl sniffed, though there was an echo of Beth's amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes. "My mother tried to say I was unwell but... but he looked at me so hatefully." She was making a mangled wreck of her neckcloth. "Then when he'd gone she... she beat me and locked me in my brother's room. My room doesn't have a lock."

"She beat you!"

"She said she would beat me harder if I did such a thing again, but truly I couldn't help it!" The girl's twisting had worked the neckcloth free and now she pulled at it with her whitened fingers. "His mouth tastes like the midden, and he terrifies me!"

Beth gathered the girl into her arms. "I can believe that, my dear. But how did you escape? Did your brother help you?"

"Simon?" said Clarissa incredulously. "No, he's off at Oxford, and anyway, he thinks it a famous thing just as long as his comfort is not disturbed. I took some of his old clothes and climbed out of the window."

Beth looked at the girl with new respect. "Good heavens. Was that not very dangerous?"

Clarissa shrugged. She looked down with distaste at the damp and tortured rag in her hand and dropped it on a chair. "It was only the first floor, and there's a high wall by his window. I got onto that and sort of wriggled my way along to a shed, then to the ground. But you can see I couldn't have done it in a gown," she said with a blush. It was obvious that the girl felt her boy's clothes were the most heinous aspect of it all.

"You must change straightaway," said Beth and led her into the dressing room. There Redcliff produced a shift and one of Beth's old gowns, a plain blue muslin. Clarissa changed with alacrity. The gown was a trifle long but otherwise an adequate fit.

"That feels so much better," said Clarissa with a wan smile. "You have no idea how horrible it was to be standing in the square waiting for you. I was certain everyone knew I was a woman and was looking at my legs."

"But what are we to do?" asked Beth. "Your parents will hunt for you. They will be concerned."

"No, they won't," said Clarissa stonily. "Except about Lord Deveril's money."

"I can't keep you here, Clarissa. The servants will be sure to find out. Do you have any friends who would hide you?"

Clarissa shook her head, beginning to look frightened again. "Are you going to send me back?"

Beth hugged the poor girl. "Never. But I may not be able to prevent them taking you."

"Could I not hide here?" asked Clarissa desperately. "No one except your maid saw us come in. It's a very large house."

Beth had little choice. She simply could not throw Clarissa out. "Perhaps for a little while," she said.

She turned to the maid, who was still the picture of disapproval. "Where could Miss Greystone hide and not be detected by the servants, Redcliff?"

"It's not proper, milady," protested the older woman.

"Never mind that. Where? The attics? The cellars?"

"No, milady. The servants rooms are up under the roof, some of them. And the walls are thin. If she made a move it'd be heard. And the cellars have the stores in them. There's people in and out every minute."

"Well, where then? As Clarissa says, it's an enormous house. There must be somewhere."

Redcliff's mouth became even tighter, but she answered in the end. "She'll have to go in one of the spare bedrooms, if anywhere. The one next door to your boudoir is empty."

For some reason, hiding Clarissa in a guest room seemed much more shocking than concealing her in the cellars, but the maid was doubtless correct.

"Very well," said Beth. She took Clarissa to the bedroom which housed her court dress. With a grin, she twitched aside the covers. Clarissa gasped. "It's beautiful."

"I suppose so, but I'm not looking forward to wearing it."

"I haven't been presented," said Clarissa wistfully. "I'd like it, I think."

"Do you really have a taste for such things, Clarissa?"

The girl smiled. "I don't think I have a n.o.ble mind like you. I like fine clothes, and b.a.l.l.s and flirting with young men. I like fireworks and illuminations and masquerades. Now, I suppose the best I can hope for is to be a governess or a schoolmistress. I loathe Lord Deveril," she said bitterly. "This is all his fault."

Beth could have retorted that it was the fault of Clarissa's father's addiction to gaming, but there seemed no point and she had no objection to Deveril receiving all the opprobrium. She left Clarissa with Self-Control to pa.s.s the time and strict instructions not to make any noise. As she returned to her apartments, however, Beth couldn't help reflecting on the difference in their tastes. What a shame Clarissa hadn't been the duke's daughter.

The very thought made her hands clench. She wouldn't go back to Miss Mallory's now for all the tea in China. Never see Lucien again? Truly, she feared she would die.

Back in her dressing room, she gathered up the clothing Clarissa had taken off. "What are we to do with this, Redcliff?" she asked.

"Give it to me, my lady," said the older woman with resignation. "I'll stash it somewhere below stairs. I don't know what the marquess will have to say when he finds out."

"You are not to tell him," said Beth sharply.

"I know that," said the woman, "but you better do so, milady. He can't harbor a fugitive in his father's house without knowing of it."

When she left with the bundle under her cloak, neither of them remembered the tricorne and the crumpled cravat still lying in the boudoir.

Chapter 18.

Afraid to leave Clarissa in the house alone, Beth pleaded a headache and kept to her rooms. She even took her dinner there, sharing it with the girl. She desperately tried to think of a place Clarissa could find safety, but the only possibility was the Delaneys. Though they seemed so warm and welcoming, the acquaintance was too slight to boldly ask them to be her accomplices in an illegality. If necessary she would do so, however, rather than meekly hand Clarissa back.

Beth lent the girl a nightgown and saw her tucked up in the bed. At least it was warm weather so the unaired sheets were not too cold. All they needed was for Clarissa to take sick.

Then, seeing no need to put off the matter, she prepared for bed herself and gave Redcliff the evening off. Sitting curled up on the sofa in her boudoir, fretting uselessly hour after hour over her problem, she had completely forgotten about Lucien until he walked into the room carrying a decanter and two gla.s.ses. Red wine, just like on their wedding night.

His blue eyes were bright, his beautiful mouth curled in a happy smile. "Dutch courage," he said lightly, "though I'm not sure which of us will need it most."

Beth could not hope to conceal her shock and alarm. Her princ.i.p.al thought was that Clarissa was in the very next room and might walk in at any moment.

Lucien's expression dimmed. "You perhaps?" he said and poured her a gla.s.s. This time her hand did not shake very much, and she gratefully gulped the encouraging claret.

He studied her before he spoke. "I thought your note was unambiguous, my dear, but I'm beginning to wonder. Would you prefer that I leave?"