Authors: Ann Stephens
The nobleman had won the support of Mistress Hunter’s maiden aunt, the middle-aged lady Bethany had observed sitting with them. The elder woman, having lived for decades under her brother’s overbearing rule, fell under Lord Thomas’s sway easily. It was she, in fact, who passed communications between the young pair.
“What’s needed is for him to be convinced that an alliance with the Orseys brings more prestige than with a mere baron or viscount.” He grinned at her. “Don’t tell Richard I said such.”
“No, I shall leave that to you, shan’t I?” She steadfastly refused to help him until she ascertained that he did not manipulate the girl into the match. Recalling her sense of entrapment when faced with the prospect of life with Mr. Ilkston, her mouth tightened. The heiress’s predicament gained more of her sympathy than his lordship’s.
Her concern for the girl’s well-being disappeared when she perceived the couple together. The girl’s eyes, which exactly matched the azure blue silk of her gown, never left Lord Thomas’s face, even when he introduced her to Bethany. In turn, he spoke to her with tenderness at odds with his usual lighthearted manner. Bethany received the distinct impression that neither would have noticed if the rest of the audience disappeared altogether. Satisfied, she set herself to draw Mr. Hunter’s fire by asking his opinion of this afternoon’s play.
“I confess that until recently, I never visited the playhouse in my life! I was raised in the country and never had the opportunity.” Her exclamation allowed him to expound upon the respective strengths of the Duke’s Company and the King’s, while arousing the typical City man’s pity for anyone with the ill-luck to have grown up anywhere besides London.
She cemented his approval by requiring an extremely reluctant Lord Thomas to leave them for several minutes, insisting that the ladies all wished for sweetmeats. By the time he returned, winded from the haste with which he had carried out the errand, the interval had nearly ended. Clearly delighted that his cherished offspring had spent only a few minutes’ time with her objectionable suitor, Mr. Hunter cordially agreed that she might collect his sister and daughter for a promenade at Gray’s Inn Field in three or four days.
Bethany listened to Lord Thomas’s whispered protests at her shabby treatment of him for only a few paces as they returned to their party. “Pish! May I remind you of how many fashionable people walk there? One never knows who I shall come upon in company with Mistress Hunter and her aunt.” She looked at him meaningfully until enlightenment dawned.
“Oh!” His face cleared. “Doubtless my sister and mother will like to take the air there soon. But what about Rosalind? What if she is previously engaged?”
“My dear sir, I can promise you that if she has any engagements, three days will suffice her to think of a way out of them, and very likely purchase a new walking dress for your benefit as well.” Bethany could not help laughing at the startled expression on his face.
So that the groundwork she laid should not be disturbed by further interference, she refused to visit the Hunters in the ensuing intervals. Neither did she permit Lord Thomas to, scolding him for his obtuseness.
Although the play did not entirely suit her taste, she did enjoy the music and final dance, and thanked Lady Haynes sincerely for inviting her at the end of the piece. She noticed Captain Loring’s gaze upon her numerous times over the course of the performance, but she merely tossed her head and ignored him.
As it was full dark when the performance ended, she and his lordship first accompanied Lady Haynes to her house in her coach. Seeing his sister safely disposed, he obtained the services of a sedan chair and a linkboy and escorted Bethany to Saint Clement’s Lane. In a merry humor at the prospect of meeting Mistress Hunter again soon, he begged Bethany not to disclose his intentions to her husband as they entered the hall.
“Of course I won’t tell Richard! That is your task.” She laughed and gave her cloak to the waiting footman. “Do you care to stay for a glass of wine or ale?”
To her surprise, the library door stood ajar, allowing light to spill onto the polished wood floor. She peeped in, his lordship behind her. Her husband sat by the light of a candelabrum holding a book. He must have just closed it, for his index finger still marked his place.
“I thought you dined with friends this afternoon.” Shadow and brightness played over his face and hair in the flickering candlelight. It only enhanced the green of his eyes under his half-closed eyelids. Against her will, Bethany felt her heart pick up its pace as he gazed up at her.
“I decided instead to join them later. I shall leave shortly.” He frowned as he scrutinized her. “You both look as if you enjoyed yourself.”
She drew back at his suspicious tone of voice. From behind her, Lord Thomas chuckled.
“You would have been proud of her, Rickon. First thing she did when the masque started was lean over to me and whisper ‘Dancing trees?’” He strolled in to warm his hands at the fireplace.
“They did not altogether make sense to me. In the course of the play, I mean.” She babbled as he maintained his heavy-lidded stare. “It differed from those you have taken me to.”
She waited for him to reply, but he said nothing. After a few heartbeats, she gave a tiny shrug and curtsied. “I believe I shall ask for a supper tray in my room. I wish you a pleasant evening, my lord.” Her cool voice warmed considerably. “Lord Thomas, I thank you for a most entertaining afternoon.”
Richard watched her leave the room. Her laughter coming from the hall had startled him; he had not heard it for too long. He squelched the irrational stab of jealousy that tore through him. That cool pride of hers might infuriate him, but it also meant Bethany did not stoop so low as to embarrass him in public. And surely he could trust Tom.
Still, he wondered whether she would have entered the house so cheerfully if he had accompanied them. He berated himself for his sentimentalism. The woman wanted mastering, and disliked his lessons in indifference.
That he found himself standing outside her door, tempted to knock and ask for admittance every night when he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, indicated nothing more than mere physical frustration. Irritated by this train of thought, he frowned at his friend.
“What secret do you ask my wife to keep from me?” He tried to assume a bantering tone, but did not quite succeed. Tom’s face froze in an expression of hauteur at the sharp question.
“One you shall discover in due time.” He kept his reply neutral, but his tense posture warned Richard that he did not welcome this line of questioning.
Richard leaned back in his chair. Tom’s evasiveness stirred his curiosity, but he had no wish to pick a fight with his best friend over his wife. He might be talked into spilling the truth over a few drinks, however.
“Why don’t you come along tonight? I’m meeting Hardwick at the Wooden Leg. We can find a fourth for a card game easily enough, or see what trouble we can find to get into.”
“Delightful.” The other man relaxed, accepting the extended olive branch.
His friend’s demeanor over the rest of the evening set Richard’s mind largely at ease, although he evaded questions about his great secret. He tried again while he and Tom sat playing cribbage while young Hardwick sought a fourth player to join them.
“Let be, Rickon! You shall discover all, I hope sooner rather than later.” A grimace crossed Lord Thomas’s cherubic face as they lay their cards down. “Pox on’t, you won again.”
“That should even out what you won from me last week.” They toasted one another with their tankards, chuckling.
Lord Thomas replaced the long, slender mouthpiece of his white clay pipe between his teeth and drew on it, closing his eyes as he exhaled a thin stream of tobacco smoke. Around them, a blue miasma from a dozen other patrons floated, adding its acrid note to the earthy scent of hops and malt from the house’s home-brewed. A hint of roasted meat wafted by as a buxom dark-haired girl passed carrying a tray of victuals to another table.
Richard wrinkled his nose; she also left the odor of sour sweat in her wake. It compared poorly with the sandalwood his fastidious wife used.
Their party had taken a table under a lantern hanging from an iron hook in the wall. The guttering tallow candle emitted its share of smoke as well, which rose to blacken the half-timbered walls and beamed ceiling. Around the room, other lanterns lit and smoked their own sections of wall, while an iron chandelier resembling the rim of a coach wheel hung from a massive beam in the middle of the room, its candles impartially illuminating the patrons and the serving wenches.
Their glow reflected off a number of jewels, for the Wooden Leg lay west of Covent Garden in an area inhabited by nobles who needed to live near Parliament and Court. Richard had pinned up the brim of his plumed beaver hat with a gleaming brooch of gold work. Across from him, a fine amethyst glowed on his friend’s hand. He nodded at the stone in its heavy gold setting.
“I see you put my winnings to good use and redeemed your father’s ring.”
“Thanks to you and my brother, I’m in funds for the time being.” Lord Thomas regarded his cards with disgust as he placed them on the scarred wooden table. “Or at least I was.”
“No rush, you’ll pay when you can.” Richard sobered when the other man laughed and waggled his ring finger. “Don’t pawn it again! One of these times you won’t be able to get it back. Trust me, you’d regret it.” His mouth twisted bitterly.
“Your parents would rather you sold their jewels than let you and Glory starve, Rick. Had they lived, they would have done the same.” He abandoned this melancholy subject abruptly as his eyes widened.
Richard found his forearm clasped in a warning grip. “Don’t turn around, but Hardwick has approached Loring, of all people.”
His back tensed. It faced the room, while his vision only included the wall behind them and part of the tables on each side. “Damnation. If he invites that blaggard to join us, he will accept out of sheer maliciousness.” The fingers of his sword hand twitched. “Faith, perhaps we shall see if his skills have improved since we all fought the Dutch.”
Lord Thomas casually took his pipe from his mouth to allow a long pull of ale. His gaze still rested over Richard’s shoulder as he made his observations.
“His fortunes certainly appear to have increased. He wears more silks and jewels than my mother and sister combined.” He snorted. “And who told him that apricot ribbons suit burgundy velvet? The man’s become a crime against eyesight.”
“Probably a scheme of his own devising.” Richard kept his voice low. “The Lorings never did have any taste, they just didn’t have the cash to indulge their vulgarity.” He straightened slightly. “Odd, come to think of it.”
“That Hardwick invites him to join us? Not really; most people in England know aught of his history with your family.”
“No, that Loring has such wealth. The King granted him an annuity for his father’s service, but not a large one.”
Tom shrugged. “I have no idea. Winnings? Or a wealthy relative.”
“He gambles as badly as he dresses.” Richard drummed his fingers on the table. “And his father was the only one in his family who supported the King. ’Tis a complete mystery.”
“Belike you can ask him. He’s coming over with Hardwick.” Both men came to attention, although their faces remained neutral. Sir Harry Hardwick, a portly young man with wavy brown hair, had grown up in England and had not learned of the rivalry between Richard and the captain. His florid face glowed as he proudly presented him as a fourth for their cribbage game.
Ignoring their lukewarm greetings, Loring made a great show of seating himself and adjusting the ribbons and bows covering his shoulders, wrists, and knees. Comfortably settled in place, he affected surprise in seeing Lord Thomas.
“My lord, ’tis delightful seeing you again so soon. So kind of you to amuse both Lady Harcourt and her lord.” His dark eyes sparkled with malice. “Whatever were you and her ladyship whispering about in the corridor this afternoon?”
Richard had expected such an obvious attack from his rival and ignored it. But as Sir Harry’s plump hands dealt the cards, he happened to glance at Tom. A flush darkened his old friend’s cheek at Loring’s words.
Unsettled, he gathered his cards, sorting them mechanically. By silent consensus, he and Tom played against Sir Harry and the captain. As no one nibbled at Loring’s first bait, he cast out another.
“We have not agreed on points, have we?” He smirked. “With your fortunate marriage, Harcourt, we no longer need to stop at schoolboy wagers. Shall we say half a crown for every point?”
Although much smaller than the thousands of pounds won or lost in the most extravagant circles, a losing streak at that rate could still beggar a man. Tom remained expressionless at the proposed stakes, but Sir Harry’s face paled slightly.
“Perhaps something a bit smaller, Arthur. I think two shillings a point is sufficient.” Richard smiled gently at his opponent. “As you pointed out, I am a married man, and wives are remarkably extravagant creatures.”
“Particularly when the money is their own.” The captain appeared the picture of innocence as he focused on his own hand. Richard regarded him under half-closed eyes as he selected his first discard.
“There is also my estate to consider. The Orsey estate belongs to Tom’s brother, and Sir Harry’s father enjoys excellent health, does he not?” Young Hardwick nodded, nervous at the hostility vibrating between the two men. “And of course, your father had no claim on his family’s property, so you are free of such encumbrances as a country house and estate. I, alas, must consider my responsibilities.”
Tom’s lip quivered, but he said nothing. Loring’s teeth nearly ground audibly at Richard’s direct hit, but he did his best to deflect it.
“Faith, I hope to remedy that soon enough. My mother’s family had some land I might come into, only a few days from town. In Bedfordshire.”
At this point, Sir Harry’s nerve gave out and he demanded that the game start in earnest.
The aftermath of that evening was not immediately evident, but Richard found himself watching both his wife and his best friend closely. It went against the grain to suspect Tom in particular, but he could not help noticing the amount of time they spent together.
A promenade in Gray’s Inn, another theater party, a trip to Greenwich to enjoy a meal at an eating house there. Every time he stepped into the hall, it seemed that Tom arrived for yet another outing or Bethany came in from one on his arm.
That both included others in all these schemes, and routinely invited him to join their parties, comforted him not at all. Tom knew as well as he did the art of seducing a woman under the nose of even the most zealous of guardians. Only the admission to himself that his own negligence might play a part in encouraging Bethany to stray kept him from calling his old friend out.
He refused to confront either of them, on the grounds that doing so might give his wife the mistaken idea that he suffered from jealousy. He assured himself that any heartburnings he felt for the prideful woman stemmed only from his concern that her behavior might reflect poorly on the Harcourt name.
He continued his round as before. He visited his favorite coffeehouses to catch up on the latest Court gossip and dined with friends. Evenings he spent gaming in the most fashionable houses, attending the theater and drinking in low taverns where an aristocrat could get a tankard and a tumble.
His cronies twitted him because he now indulged only in the former. He retorted that even to be fashionable, he could not bring himself to touch the filthy and diseased wenches who plied their trade in the alehouses.
“Pho, Harcourt! I haven’t seen you do anything but flirt with a wench since you married.” The speaker, deep in his cups, sniggered. “Not that we blame you. Saw the lady in Saint James’s Park yesterday with a friend of yours—”
The cold scrape of metal on metal stopped him. Richard stood before him, sword drawn.
“I suggest you not finish that sentence!” The shouted advice came from elsewhere in the room, followed by a burst of laughter. The speaker’s gaze went from the blade to Richard’s face.
He did not move a muscle until after the sot subsided, sinking into his seat with a muttered apology. After a long silence, he put up his blade and returned to his own drink. Those present conceded that he had behaved correctly in preventing his wife’s name to be bandied about in a public house.
Despite the quiet assurances of his friends that no hint of improper behavior attached itself to his wife, doubts lingered. He could not help wondering why she spent such an unaccountable amount of time with Tom and his family when a stream of invitations for her poured into the house in Saint Clement’s Lane. That Orsey spent less time in his own company did not escape his notice either.
Bethany’s success in bringing his Rosalind into favor with Lord Thomas’s mother and sister pleased them both. She discovered a taste for organizing parties herself, and proved a popular hostess. With her own invitations sought after by society, inserting Mistress Hunter and her aunt into her gatherings proved easy.
The girl’s modesty prevented accusations of trying to jump herself up, while her aunt’s sharp tongue amused the wits. Bethany even managed to introduce Rosalind’s father, a great lover of the theater, to a few ladies and gentlemen with similar enthusiasm. This number included Lord Thomas, who impressed the old man with his knowledge of the drama.
Neither the Hunter ladies nor Bethany herself tried to hide their middling backgrounds. This made them unacceptable to the highest sticklers, but those were in a minority. Most of the nobility took its cue from the new King’s Court, where anyone suitably dressed could enter Whitehall to watch the uncrowned monarch dine.
Bethany took advantage of this rule to bring Mistress Hunter to Court, and thus to Lady Planchard’s attention. Although Lord Thomas’s mother did not entirely approve of the girl’s mercantile antecedents, she gave her full credit for deportment.
“Indeed, Mistress Hunter could teach manners to a number of ladies at Court.” The Dowager Countess delivered that opinion as she sat in the parlour in Saint Clement’s Lane enjoying a small cup of tea. Bethany had purchased an exquisite set of porcelain cups made expressly for drinking the beverage, and wanted to show it off. Mistress Hunter and her aunt had just left.
Lady Haynes, who had brought her mother from Whitehall, agreed as she selected a jumble to nibble on. Lady Planchard sniffed at the demoralized manners of the young.
“Only yesterday, I heard quite a young lady from one of the best families in England”—she lowered her voice, causing Bethany and the viscountess to lean forward—“say ‘pox on’t.’” She shuddered and took a restorative sip of tea. The two young women, familiar with the phrase thanks to its use by their respective spouses, struggled to keep their faces straight.
“Mistress Hunter’s dress is pleasingly modest as well, for all everything she wears is of the best quality.” A speculative gleam entered the Dowager Countess’s eye. “I wonder if Thomas has noticed.”
Bethany whispered the entire exchange into the delighted young man’s ear during a tedious concert of works by Orlando Gibbons at Mr. Davenant’s house. She feared that in a less public place he would have kissed her cheek as soundly as he did her hands. As she regarded him in the light of a brother, she would not find that offensive. But as new as she was in society, she knew that malicious tongues would wag about such a breach of propriety.
When Tom burst into the parlour the following afternoon, interrupting her dinner, he did not stop at merely kissing her on the cheek. She scarcely greeted him before he pulled her out of her seat and swung her around in a rib-crushing embrace.
“Bethany, you shall never guess!” She maneuvered to avoid spilling her tankard of small beer on her empty plate.
“Is this attempt to suffocate me related to Mr. Hunter’s acceptance of your suit?” She would have laughed at the crestfallen expression on his face had she not stood gasping for air.
“Yes, but how did you know?” Before she caught her breath enough to deliver a tart estimation of masculine intelligence, he waved his own question aside. “Never mind, it doesn’t signify. I requested Rosalind’s hand this morning and we had the settlements worked out by the end of dinner.”
“Money again!” She pulled away. “’Tis always the same cry for an heiress: How much will she bring?” Lord Thomas snapped his head up.
“You know very well I do not regard Rosalind in that manner.” He looked at her with eyes gone as flat as his voice. “I shall marry her if her father loses every penny he owns tomorrow.”
“Forgive me, Tom. I had no right to cast aspersions on your feelings.” Withdrawing a lace-edged square from her sleeve, she pressed it against the tears threatening to overflow. “I wish you both every blessing.”
“You could try an apology.” He spoke mildly, but she took offense anyway.
“For giving Richard permission to seek out his mistress? Do be serious, Tom.” She paced to the fireplace and stared into the low flames.
“For rejecting him.” He followed her. “He lost his father at the Battle of Worcester at eighteen. He got his mother and sister out of England after that, but his mother died in Paris a few years later. Mistress Shadbourne would welcome him back now that he has money enough to afford the expensive kickshaws she’s so fond of, but he doesn’t forget that she cast him off to marry a wealthy old man.”
She traced the carved mantelpiece as she listened.
“Even if I would consider such a thing, how am I supposed to beg forgiveness of someone I scarcely see?” Her face crumpled. “Oh, Tom, he doesn’t come home until dawn most nights, and he’s away again before dinnertime. I can scarce get him to look at me, much less hold a conversation.” She turned and buried her face in his shoulder. “How did the two of us come to this pass?”
“We’ll think of something, my dear.” He patted her back. “’Tis not right for you to be so unhappy. Perhaps you should leave town for a time.”
“Yes, from the looks of things, that would appear to be an excellent idea.”
They froze at Richard’s silky voice. Bethany whirled to see her husband placing his gauntlets on the table. In his eagerness to tell her of his betrothal, Lord Thomas had left the door open. Sick with horror, she realized he must have overheard the last of their conversation. Remembering her place in Lord Thomas’s arms, she gave a small cry and stepped away from him.
“By all means, continue. Forgive me for interrupting such a touching scene.” For all his controlled manner, Richard’s eyes glittered dangerously in a face gone white. She eyed him nervously, fearing he would go for his sword in the next instant.
“A scene you misunderstand, Rick.” Lord Thomas interposed himself between them.
“Have done, Tom.” Richard’s harsh bark of laughter echoed from the paneled walls. “I’ve never hurt a woman in my life. You, however…” He picked up a gauntlet and would have thrown it in his friend’s face had Bethany not pushed forward to grab his hand.
“Richard, no! You misunderstand completely!” He wrestled his arm from her grip, but did not issue a challenge to the other man. Tom attempted to protect her by pulling her out from between them, only to have Richard lunge at him as soon as she was out of danger. She stepped back in between them, arms outstretched to keep them apart.
“Stop this! You are both to blame!” She glared at each in turn. “Tom, if you had not kept your plans a secret from Richard in the first place, he would not be laboring under a misapprehension now.”
“Enough.” The blaze of anger left Richard’s face. He bowed his head and grasped the back of a chair as if for support. “I know well enough I have a share of blame for this, or so help me God, I would skewer you where you stand.”
“Richard, will you please let me explain?” Bethany’s exasperation mounted as she listened to him.
“Madam, I cannot conceive of anything you could tell me that will explain away your words and actions.” He brushed aside her protest to snarl at his friend.
“Get out. Just because I bear part of the blame for this curst tangle doesn’t mean I can forgive you for taking advantage of my wife’s weakness.”
“What?” Both men ignored her exclamation.
“I’m not leaving until I’m sure your wife is safe with you.” Lord Thomas crossed his arms and regarded him steadily.
“By my father’s grave, Tom.” Richard laughed in bitter jest. The other man seemed to understand it, however, for after a bow to Bethany and a curt nod of the head to Richard, he clapped his hat on his fair head and left.
She tried to speak but he cut her off and strode to the bellpull. He rang so imperiously that the porter, the housekeeper, and even the cook scurried into the room.
“Pack her ladyship’s things.” She sank into a chair in shock at his order. He stared through her. “She leaves for Yorkshire at first light tomorrow morning.”
After they scattered out of the room, Bethany tried once more to tell him the truth.
“I saw you with my own eyes embracing my oldest friend and planning to run off with him!” He did not rant or show her anything but the most frigid courtesy, but he would not allow her to defend herself. “’Tis best to remove you from temptation. You said when you agreed to marry me that you would be content to live on my estate. Very well, madam. You may put your housekeeping skills to good use at Graymoor.” He picked up his gauntlets, running the leather fingers through his own.
“I shall order Lane to drive you to Stanworth. You may spend a night there and collect Gloriana. ’Tis high time she returned to her own home as well.”
“Tell the cook we shall both be home for supper.” He had never looked at her so coldly as he did now. “In the meantime, I have arrangements to make. I trust you will understand and cease to importune me.”
Without another word he turned on his heel and left her standing in the middle of the room, stunned.
They scarcely spoke to one another for the rest of the afternoon and evening. By the time he handed her into the new traveling coach she had authorized Mr. Leafley to pay for, her fury at his refusal to listen to her nearly convinced her that going to Yorkshire was her own wish.
She settled back against the comfortably cushioned seat and regarded Faith, who sat across from her. The little maid’s eyes welled with tears at the prospect of separation from her Lane, a sight that irritated Bethany considerably.
“Stop blubbering!” She handed the older woman a lace-edged kerchief. “At least you get another few days with your man.”
Mopping at her eyes, she looked up at her. “My lady, do you love him?” Bethany did not pretend to misunderstand her, but dwelling on her husband only led to sensations of deep melancholy. “Why can you not make it up with him?”
“Blow your nose,” Bethany replied.
Anger sustained her through the long journey to Yorkshire. As the coach crawled northward each day over ill-kept roads, she mastered the nausea that inevitably afflicted her. In truth, she did not know which was worse, her motion sickness or listening to her sister-in-law’s chatter.
Finally losing her temper, she threatened to make the girl get out and walk the rest of the way to the North Riding. Fortunately, this did not occur until the fifth day of their travels. After a dinner characterized by cold silence on the part of both ladies, a night’s sleep restored them to the point of civility.
They expected to arrive at Graymoor before sundown that day, and even Bethany’s spirits lightened at the prospect of the journey’s end. Uncertain of what to expect, she asked Gloriana about the estate. The delicate blonde shook her head.
“I haven’t set eyes on Graymoor since I was a small girl. I can’t even properly describe what it looked like then.” A wistful note entered her voice. “Mostly I remember bits and pieces, like playing with my Noah’s ark on a wooden floor or following my mother on her daily round.” She leaned back against the buttery soft leather squabs, closing her eyes.
“I would hang on to her gown while she visited the stillroom. I was never allowed to touch a thing in there. Mother said physick taken out of turn—”