Lady Lucy's Lover (19 page)

“How soon?” whispered Lucy hoarsely, her mind filled with all sorts of nameless perils which could stop his return.

“A few weeks,” said Ann soothingly. “Plenty of time for you to recover your looks.”

“A few
weeks
,” Lucy said, struggling to raise herself up on the pillows. “And my looks! Give me a looking glass.”

“The affairs of his estate were pressing,” said Ann, pushing Lucy back with a firm hand. “And you will have a looking glass when you are feeling stronger.”

“No! Now!”

“Very well.” Ann silently handed her a glass.

“Oh, dear,” said Lucy. “Is that really me?”

A thin, wasted face with huge, dark circles under the eyes stared back at her. Her hair hung lank and dull over her forehead.

“You have been very, very ill,” said Ann quietly. “Now you will recover. And you must never doubt Habard's love. His devotion was… very moving.”

“Tell me what happened… to Barrington?” asked Lucy.

“Later,” said Ann, watching Lucy's eyelids beginning to droop. “It is a fantastic story. Your parents have called every day. You must be strong for them too.”

But Lucy was already asleep.

In the days that followed, Lucy began to piece together bits and pieces of the story until she had nearly the whole.

The Duke had broken the code. He realized he had been trying too hard, and that whatever the code was, it was bound to be something simple. One could hardly consider the late Marquess an intellectual. And so he had counted from the end of the alphabet instead of the beginning, and there he had it.

The authorities were quickly alerted. At first, they could not find Barrington or Carruthers. The Marquess and Sir Percival Burke were dead. The Earl of Oxtead had fled the country and rumor had it he had been killed by Napoleon's troops in a drunken brawl.

Young Harry Chalmers had fought like a tiger before he was finally subdued. He at last admitted that Jerry Carruthers had been responsible for the deaths of the Marquess and Sir Percival, after he had disposed of the Prime Minister.

But apart from the address in Fetter Lane, he did not know where else Barrington might be.

The Duke, his servants, and the authorities had searched all over London for the missing bill broker.

And then the Hartfords had arrived, terrified and exhausted with their story of the mysterious abduction of Lucy.

It was then that the Duke had thought to call on Harriet Comfort. What had transpired there, Ann said, no one knew, but he had managed to find Barrington's address. But when they got to Surrey-side, the house was a blazing ruin. They had dug frantically, the Duke crying Lucy's name, everyone convinced that her dead body would be found in the rubble. But only the bodies of Barrington and Carruthers had been found. And that was when the Duke had returned to Harriet Comfort's and had emerged, dragging her behind him.

“She knew nothing of the plot to kill the Prime Minister. But she did know where Li could be found. And so… the rest you know.”

Lucy was out of bed and lying on a chaise longue in the Hartfords' drawing room as Ann finished the story.

“Simon does not say when he will return,” said Lucy, looking out at the pale sunshine. “In fact, I am not quite sure
what
he says in his letters at all. It is amazing that such an elegant man should have such atrocious handwriting.”

But Lucy would not admit to qualms of unease. She had been able to decipher most of Simon's letters and they had seemed very correct and formal, although he always showed concern for her health.

Ann told her she was vastly improved in looks, but Lucy had lost confidence. All the glass told her was that she looked pale and insignificant.

What if Simon had met some other lady? What if his letters showed that he really considered her only as a friend?

And so Lucy's worried thoughts twisted and turned in her head as the long winter passed and the days grew lighter and still he did not come.

She was now allowed visitors. Her parents came almost every day. Lucy found the courage to tell them she had lied about the court dress.

“Well!” gasped Mrs. Hyde-Benton. “It was very naughty of you, dear, but I suppose we must forgive our little puss now she is to marry a Duke.”

“I have not seen him for some time,” said Lucy. “Mayhap he will not be of the same mind.”

“Never say so,” cried her mother. “He is honor bound to marry you and so we shall tell him.”

“Oh,
no
, Mama,” said Lucy wretchedly. “Not another arranged marriage. I could not bear it. I want a man who loves me for myself.”

“You are very unworldly,” said her father severely. “You would not have married into the aristocracy in the first place had we not taken matters in hand.”

“And you consider it a great thing that I was married to a criminal, a wastrel, and a womanizer?” said Lucy.

“You musn't be so rigid, dear,” said her mother. “The aristocracy will have their little ways. I hope you aren't going to be too prudish with His Grace. A fine thing it would be if you threw away this magnificent chance because of your moralizing. I don't know where you get it from.”

“No, Mama,” said Lucy quietly. What on earth would Simon think of these parents of hers? But she had resolved never to exclude them from her home or friends again. Guy had been wrong. But on the other hand… she had a sudden vision of the elegant and fastidious Duke entertaining her mother and father to dinner, and shuddered.

And then she felt ashamed of herself. Her parents loved her very much and had done their best for her as far as they could see it. It was no use pointing out that her marriage had nearly led to her death.

Furthermore, Simon's mother came from a low background and behaved disgracefully. But then society always forgave an outrageous, vulgar eccentric with a title while they looked askance at pushing, pretentious middle class.

But none of these worried thoughts appeared on Lucy's face, and she set herself to rum Mr. and Mrs. Hyde-Benton's minds from the subject of the Duke of Habard.

After her parents had left, a late post brought a letter from Simon. She screwed up her eyes in an effort to decipher his scrawl. At last it emerged that he was due back in London shortly and looked forward to the pleasure of calling on her. It was simply signed “S” as usual, no words of love or affection.

Despite a sinking feeling that his feelings had definitely cooled towards her, Lucy spent the next days slaving to improve her appearance, and the house seemed filled from morning till night with couturieres, mantua makers, and hairdressers.

For the following two days, she sat waiting, perfumed and dressed, too nervous to even sew or read a book, jumping nervously every time carriage wheels sounded on the cobbles outside.

Matters were not helped by overhearing Ann muttering to Giles, “I could
kill
Habard. What ails the man? If he had changed in his affections, at least he could write and put her out of her misery.”

And so the next day, Lucy brushed out the hairdresser's elaborate art and tied her hair back at the nap of her neck with a black silk ribbon. The weather had turned chilly again and so she put on a comfortable kerseymere wool dress and half-boots.

She picked up a novel and forced herself to read until she became absorbed in the story. When a carriage rattled over the cobbles outside, she did not even look up.

Ann and Giles had left to visit relatives, and Lucy had given instructions to the servants that she was not to be disturbed.

All callers were to be firmly told that the Marchioness was not at home.

She did not raise her eyes from the page when the door opened, assuming it to be a footman with logs for the fire.

“Still in mourning, I see,” said a dry voice.

Then her eyes flew up and she started to her feet, the book falling from her lap.

The Duke of Habard was standing framed in the doorway, handsome as ever, tall and elegant in impeccable morning dress from his sculptured cravat to his glossy hessians.

“No,” said Lucy, “I am not in mourning. You see…” She wanted to tell him that she had given up hoping he would come—had put on old, comfortable clothes and that was why she was wearing a black ribbon in her hair and a gray dress—but somehow the words died on her lips.

“May I sit down?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Lucy, while all the time her heart was crying out to him to take her in his arms and to kiss all her fears away.

But his eyes were cold and hard. He sat down on a hardback chair, took out a snuff box, and deftly took a pinch with an elegance which would have made even Lord Petersham stare with envy.

“I trust I find you recovered,” said this stiff and formal stranger who sat in the Duke of Habard's clothes and had the Duke of Habard's voice.

“Yes,” said Lucy faintly.

“I am much relieved,” he said. “I was troubled about your health. You endured a great ordeal.”

I want to ask him what happened, thought Lucy wildly. But I am afraid. Obviously, he not only does not love me, but he does not like me one little bit.

“You received my letters?” asked the Duke politely.

“Yes… yes, indeed,” said Lucy faintly.

“Oh, you did,” said the Duke with sudden savagery. “Amazing!”

“Amazing?” said Lucy, looking bewildered. “Are the posts so bad?”

“I see you are of a mind to be sarcastic,” he said coldly.

To Lucy's horror, he got to his feet, indicating that the call was at an end.

“I am glad to see you are fully recovered in body, if not in mind,” he said with a magnificent bow. “Let us hope your great grief will soon be overcome.”

And with a smaller bow from the waist, he stalked towards the door.

In that moment, all breeding, all conventional training fell from Lucy's shaking shoulders, leaving a raw, hurting, rejected woman.

“So she's got her claws in you as well,” she spat out in the direction of his retreating back. “So you called on her to find out the whereabouts of Li? And what exactly did you do?”

He swung round then, his eyes glittering. “Have you gone demented? Of whom are you talking?”

“Her!” screamed Lucy, jumping up and down with jealous rage. “Harriet Comfort.”

“Harriet…?” He strode across the room and took Lucy by the shoulders and shook her.

“How dare you couple my name with that of a doxy? Have I not stood enough? Was it not enough to learn that you are still wasting away with grief for that miserable husband of yours? To allow me to pour out my passion and love in all those letters and—”

“Stop!” said Lucy. “Oh, Simon.
What
are you talking about?”

“I paid a call on your parents before I came here,” he said, glaring down at her, “to ask permission to pay my addresses. I was informed by both your parents that it was only to be expected of me after I…
I
—mark you—had caused such a scandal. I wished for a speedy wedding, but they counseled me to wait until you had recovered from your grief for Standish. I pointed out that you could not be grieving over the death of such a useless, weak, and criminal man, and your mother shook her head and smiled and said, ‘Oh, poor, dear Guy. Such a wild, young man. Youth will have its follies.'”

“Oh, dear,” said Lucy, going limp in his grasp. “Do not hold me so tightly, Simon, you are hurting me. My poor, silly parents. No, I do not grieve for Guy one little bit. I thought you had forgot me, that you no longer loved me.”

“But my letters…”

“Of passion and love?” Lucy smiled. “Simon,
really
. I have them by me, I always keep your letters near me. Read one!”

She went over to a writing desk in the corner and selected a letter at random from the pile. The Duke quickly scanned it. “Your writing is very hard to decipher, Simon,” said Lucy, “but you must admit your letters are very formal.”

“Well,
this
one is. Let me see the others.”

He quickly scanned three more, holding up his quizzing glass and staring at the parchment in increasing dismay.

“Strange,” he murmured. “When I wrote to you, I felt all the feelings of love and passion and I was sure I was writing them down.”

Lucy came to stand next to him. “If you will look in
that
one,” she said smiling, “you will find a vastly passionate description of the prospective ploughing of the five acre.”

He put the letter down and looked at her very seriously. “You do not care for me, Lucy?”

“I love you with all my heart.”

He caught her in his arms and slowly bent his mouth to hers. Her eyelids closed, and her own mouth turned up to receive his kiss.

The storm of passion that shook both of them was worse than ever before. At last, he looked ruefully down at her swollen lips and murmured, “If we are going to wait, then I cannot bear much more of this. How could you ever think I would even look at Harriet Comfort after having held you in my arms?”

“She had a terrible bruise on her face,” said Lucy.

“It was necessary to beat some of the information out of her,” he said. “I had little time.”

“Oh,” said Lucy, looking up at him doubtfully. “Would you beat me, Simon?”

“If you tried to leave me, yes.”

“Kiss me again, Simon.”

“Yes… no. Not here.”

“Where?”

“In my bed.”

“But
Simon
…”

“Now. Come with me now before the Hartfords return. You have no idea what hell I suffered, thinking you Were dead, thinking you were lost to me. Is it too shocking an idea? Lucy, look at me? My waistcoat knows your answer but I cannot hear it.”

Lucy shyly raised her head.

“Yes, Simon.”

“Then fetch your bonnet and cloak… quickly.”

Li, moving through the jostling crowds in Piccadilly, suddenly saw a high-perch phaeton making its way through the press of traffic.