Lysander's Lady Page 4

  She, for her part, perceived a remarkably personable gentleman who was gazing at her with what she took to be a rather apprehensive smile—but which, in fact, was one of pure stupefaction—and instantly sought to put him at his ease.

  ‘You are my dear godmama’s younger son? How I long to embrace her, but you must suffice for the moment!’

  As the dazed Mr. Derwent attempted to take one of the hands stretched out to him in welcome, they were clasped upon either side of his face and he found himself being kissed warmly and very agreeably upon the cheek, while a delicate perfume assailed his nostrils to the further bewilderment of his senses.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Despite his understandable consternation, Mr. Derwent had not been the despair of match-making mamas for close on ten years without learning a thing or two about handling young females. Swiftly regaining his poise, he possessed himself of her hands and touched each in turn to his lips. She watched him, her head on one side, her eyes alight with—could it be mischief?

  He decided that it was and that Miss Honeywell needed to be taught a salutary lesson without loss of time. No doubt in the wild land from whence she came, her beauty excused any want of conduct, but she must learn that she could not deal in this fashion in England, more especially not with a gentleman of his consequence. Her next remark hinted that she might have been reading his thoughts.

  ‘You are displeased, sir? It is not, perhaps, quite the thing to greet you thus? But you are my godmother’s son, is not that as close as a relative?’

  ‘Indeed, ma’am, I promise to be as a brother to you if that merits such treatment!’ Lysander was at his most suave. ‘But in England it is the gentleman’s privilege to salute the lady.’ Whereupon he swept her into his arms and proceeded to demonstrate his argument in the most practical fashion.

  To his astonishment he discovered himself to be moved in a very affecting way, and was greatly tempted to continue the lesson for longer than was strictly necessary. That normally imperturbable organ, his heart, performing the most odd convolutions, made him all at once aware of the utter impropriety of his actions, and he hastily released his enchanting armful.

  Miss Honeywell, apparently less concerned than he, stepped back to study him with a steady regard.

  ‘Yes,’ she said calmly, ‘I am persuaded you are a gazetted breaker of hearts. You are uncommonly handsome, but I daresay you know that very well.’

  Had she uttered the most blighting set-down he could not have been more mortified, nor brought to a quicker understanding of his own ungentlemanly behaviour.

  ‘I beg you will forgive me, ma’am,’ he began then, as he met her candid gaze, he said simply, ‘I could not help myself.’

  At that, the laughter returned to her eyes and she dimpled entrancingly. ‘If that was all your reason, sir, then there is no more to be said! I feared you were attempting to reprove me for my lack of social grace.’

  Whether prudence would have restrained Mr. Derwent from confessing that such had been his original intention was never disclosed, for his attention, at that moment, was distracted by the sight of a small blackamoor who had wandered into the room and was seated upon the floor beside him. Lysander, wondering if his brain had not been slightly addled by his recent experiences, shut his eyes quickly, but on opening them again found the scene to be quite unchanged.

  ‘This is Bartholomew,’ explained Miss Honeywell, taking pity on his confusion. ‘I brought him with me from the Cape, and he was most vilely sick throughout the whole passage, poor little scrap. Oh, take care, sir!’ Feeling that something was required of him, Mr. Derwent had bent to pat the curly dark head and instantly a small hand had darted upwards.

  ‘Dear Bartholomew!’ went on Miss Honeywell kindly. ‘Such a lively mite! No, no, that is the gentleman’s cravat pin, he’ll have use for it later!’ Deftly, she removed the single fine diamond that was all Mr. Derwent permitted himself in the way of personal adornment out of the little creature’s reach. ‘He seems to have taken a liking to you. Generally he is the shyest of children.’

  Lysander, who was still feeling a trifle put out, could not allow this to be a matter for particular congratulation.

  ‘If you say so, ma’am,’ he responded rather stiffly, as she coaxed the boy out of the room.

  ‘It is all so strange for him, so different from the only life he has known,’ she submitted in half-smiling apology. ‘Oh—I have a maid as well, Bartholomew’s mother. Her name is Venus. I do hope your mama won’t dislike it too excessively.’

  Mr. Derwent made a mental resolve to pay a long visit to Mansell in the near future, where, owing to his brother’s lengthy convalescence, things were all to pieces and in need of attention. Their privacy being just then invaded by the entry of some travellers, he availed himself of the interruption to take his leave.

  ‘When may my mother expect you, ma’am?’

  Miss Honeywell gave this question some thought. ‘I am of the opinion,’ she said at last, ‘that it would be no bad thing if we remained here for a time to accustom ourselves to our new circumstances before taking on the greater challenge of London. If your mama would be so obliging—shall we say in about a week?’

  Bowing his acquiescence, Mr. Derwent said all that was proper and went out to where the patient Harvey was walking Roland and Oliver up and down, while awaiting his master’s pleasure.

  This encounter with his mother’s goddaughter had induced such an irritation of the nerves in Lysander that he was less observant of what was going on about him than was usual. With an effort, he recalled that Lady Glendower had asked him if he would be so obliging as to deliver a letter to a dear friend of hers living at Ockham, and as it was but a few miles out of his way he had gladly consented to do so. As the curricle drew away from the Talbot two horsemen, deeply engaged in conversation on the other side of the road, glanced significantly at each other and headed their mounts to follow discreetly after it.

  Their mission having been accomplished in rather twice the time that was to be expected owing to the lady’s loquacity, the afternoon was well advanced when Mr. Derwent gave his pair the office to start back along the rough country lane to re-join the Portsmouth Road.

  ‘You’ll need to spring ‘em, sir, if we’re to get back to London before dark.’

  ‘Thank you, Harvey, but I have more thought for my horses than to lame them on a road like this.’

  It was plain to the groom, after he had made a few further tentative efforts at conversation, that Mr. Lysander was riding rusty about something. So, wisely, he subsided into silence. Mr. Derwent, whose attention should have been fully occupied in handling his young pair, found his thoughts wandering in the most unprecedented manner, so that it was not to be wondered at that he was quite taken by surprise when Harvey suddenly shouted out: ‘There’s an obstacle in the road, sir! Pull ‘em up, for God’s sake!’

  The obstacle proved to be a rough barricade of thorn bushes and rocks, barely discernible in the gathering dusk, and the reason for it was at once made clear by the prompt appearance of several horsemen, all masked and carrying pistols.

  Nothing in Roland and Oliver’s limited experience had prepared them for surmounting a barrier of this sort, and not unnaturally they took exception to such an absurdity. Mr. Derwent, endeavouring to bring them under control, was more incensed than alarmed when a hoarse voice by his elbow demanded that he hand over his possessions and his barkers without delay.

  ‘If I had pistols by me you’d have felt their effect by now!’ he rapped out, then seeing Harvey’s hand steal towards the carriage holster, he muttered: ‘Don’t attempt it! There’s only one shot and three of them!’ To a further request to turn out his pockets, he pointed out that to perform such an action while engaged in restraining a mettlesome pair was nothing short of impossible.

  ‘B-bid your m-man get down and go to their heads!’

  This second voice, though low and marred by a slight stammer, held the ring of
authority, and Harvey, with reluctant grumbling, descended from the curricle. He had no sooner taken hold of Roland’s bridle than the last member of the trio leaned forward and dealt him a stunning blow on the back of the head. The leader’s voice rang out in sharp reprimand.

  ‘H-have a care! There’s no call to strike unduly h-hard!’

  It was doubtful if this injunction had effect, for a second later Mr. Derwent was subjected to such a forceful tap upon the temple that he, too, lost interest in the proceedings. But even as he slid into insensibility, there was something about that voice that touched off a half-forgotten memory.

  When he came to himself some time later it was almost dark. Of his curricle and pair there was no sign, and at first he believed himself to be alone. Then a strangled groan brought him to realise that Harvey was lying, bound and gagged, near to him. His own arms were trussed high behind his back, and for a moment he lay there until the sound of an approaching vehicle aroused him to an awareness of his situation. Somehow he contrived to get to his feet and stagger to the roadside, where, once more, he lost consciousness and fell full in the path of the oncoming carriage.

  The next thing he knew he was listening to a heated discussion going on over his throbbing cranium.

  ‘I’d best take him back to Mansell. He’s in no case to be travelling up to London with that cut on his head.’

  At sound of the incisive, well-bred voice, Mr. Derwent sighed inwardly and mentally lamented the devilish ill-fortune that had sent Lord Francis Trennick, Wayleigh’s younger brother, to play the Good Samaritan.

  ‘ ’Evening, Trennick,’ he managed to mutter from between lips stiff and swollen from an over-zealous gag.

  ‘Ah, you are with us! This is a bad business, Derwent, and a deuced odd one. It seems all they needed was your vehicle and horses—no money taken, not even your valise.’

  Mr. Derwent’s hand went to his neckcloth. ‘My diamond pin has gone.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but you wasn’t wearing it,’ interposed Harvey. ‘I did wonder if you’d left it behind at Mansell.’

  Mr. Derwent did not propose to tax his aching head with any such petty problem and struggled, with great discomfort, to one elbow. ‘Fiend take them!’ he growled as the full implication of the loss of his equipage came home to him.

  Lord Francis, on a knee beside him, regarded him with some concern. ‘By all means,’ he agreed civilly, ‘but you could be a deal worse off, you know. It was a well-laid trap. A good mile from the Portsmouth Road, on a little-used track—fortunate that I was using it to cut a few miles off my journey, else you could have lain here till morning. Now, how may I be of assistance?’

  ‘You can relate the story to Wayleigh when next you see him!’ growled Mr. Derwent, who did not consider himself to be at all fortunate.

  ‘Wayleigh?’ repeated the surprised young man. ‘Haven’t set eyes on him in weeks, but I can seek him out tonight—come to think on’t, I’d better if I’m to touch him for the needful, though I doubt he’s in better case than I!’

  ‘Have no fear, he’s in high water!’ replied Mr. Derwent, submitting to being assisted to his feet and not finding it an altogether enjoyable experience. ‘Only you had best find him fast before he’s done up again.’

  Lord Francis nodded his understanding. ‘Just as soon as I have returned you to Mansell I’ll be on my way. If you can step up into my phaeton, I’ll convey you there in a moment.’ Mr. Derwent decided there was nothing for it but to accept his lordship’s offer. His head was spinning in a most unpleasant way and his knees showed an alarming tendency to buckle under him if he attempted to stand unsupported. He allowed himself to be helped into the waiting carriage and Harvey, whose skull appeared to be a deal thicker than his master’s, swung himself up behind.

  Lord Francis set his pair in motion with due regard for his passenger’s frail condition. When they had arrived at the Portsmouth Road without incident, he asked casually, ‘What did you mean by requiring me to retail all this to Wayleigh?’ Slightly mollified by his lordship’s considerate attentions, Mr. Derwent recounted the details of the wager.

  ‘And you accepted it without knowing what was being set against you?’ Lord Francis regarded him in awed admiration.

  ‘Well, he will now have to await my convenience—this business will mean a new curricle and—devil take it!—Blackmore’s have always made my carriages, but the old man was buried a few weeks since and I’d not trust that boy of his with anything greater than a dogcart.’

  ‘Adams in Long Acre is the man for you,’ declared his lordship cheerfully. ‘Expensive, of course, but you’ll not care about that.’

  ‘Yes, he is well spoken of, but so fashionable a carriage-builder will not be likely to turn out the sort of vehicle I require on the moment.’

  They had come to a stand by the entrance gates to Mansell and waited while Harvey got down to open them.

  ‘Patience is not my brother’s prime virtue,’ murmured Lord Francis, with a sidelong glance at his companion from under his lashes.

  ‘Does he have one?’ Mr. Derwent could not resist the thrust, but the other only smiled enigmatically as they moved forward up the drive, and his passenger was reminded that to be exchanging confidences with Wayleigh’s brother was, to say the least, unwise. Though not such a rake as the Marquis, Lord Francis was no Johnny Raw despite his tender years. Then they swung into the forecourt of the old house and Lysander contented himself with saying: ‘My thanks, Trennick, and my compliments to Lady Sophia should you see her.’

  The pale blue-green eyes looked him over curiously. ‘Is it true, then, that you are paying her some attention?’

  Mr. Derwent got down from the phaeton very deliberately. ‘I shouldn’t listen to tittle-tattle if I was you,’ he advised with kindly condescension.

  ‘What a devil of a brother-in-law you’d make!’ was all the reply he got as the carriage wheeled smartly about, and was gone before Lord Glendower’s horrified butler had time to remark upon Mr. Lysander’s unexpected return and dishevelled appearance.

  Brushing aside all offers of assistance, Mr. Derwent staggered up the steps and into the hall where his sister-in-law, alerted by the commotion of his arrival, came hurrying from the saloon to cry out in consternation at sight of him.

  ‘Don’t put yourself in a taking, Jane,’ he adjured her. ‘There’s no great harm done.’

  As he spoke he had the impression of another, taller female figure behind her, then, to his chagrin, everything began to revolve around him and darkness closed over him once more.

  His next coming to his senses was of a very different order to the previous occasions. He was lying upon some sort of sofa or daybed, with his head very comfortably cushioned and a cold damp cloth applied to his forehead.

  ‘He is so terribly pale—if only that doctor would come!’ he heard his sister-in-law lamenting.

  ‘Be better if he cast up his accounts, clear the air so to speak,’ said his brother’s hearty tones. Lysander winced and set his teeth grimly.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder at it if he did. That is a horrid gash on his temple, and he struck it again when he fell in the hall.’

  Miss Honeywell’s voice from above his head, and the distinctive aroma of her perfume, urged him to forget the rebellious heavings of his stomach. He opened his eyes and looked up into her anxious blue ones.

  ‘I am not going to be ill,’ he said with dignity, and vowed afterward that it was her prompt action in snatching a bowl from a nearby table and thrusting it under his chin that brought about his ultimate humiliation.

  The doctor, arriving at this opportune moment, soon had his patient in bed and his wound dressed. Lady Glendower was of the opinion that it would answer admirably if both her patients shared the same bedchamber, but this suggestion met with neither brother’s approval.

  ‘I’m damned if I’m going to listen to Jack snoring all night,’ Lysander protested feebly.

  ‘Nor am I going to listen to you pu
king!’ retorted his lordship, so Lysander was left to himself. Having managed to contain the laudanum prescribed for him, he soon drifted off to sleep, his mind a confused tangle of armed villains, rearing bay horses and soft embracing arms.

  That impossible girl! That she should have been a witness to his bodily weakness! His last waking thought was to wonder how she happened to be at Mansell at the precise moment of his arrival.

  This was readily explained to him by his sister-in-law in the morning. Though still somewhat confused and totally unable to move his head, he was encouraged to partake of a thin gruel which Lady Glendower had prepared with her own hands.

  ‘It will soothe your stomach,’ she assured him. ‘How fortunate that Miss Honeywell was so prompt to act! She is such a practical girl. Why, Lysander, I declare I have put you to the blush! Think nothing of it—depend upon it, she will not. I consider myself fortunate that she called to return your diamond pin which, apparently, you left at the Talbot—how did that come about?—and I prevailed upon her to stay for dinner. Glendower was much taken with hex, and of course her looks are quite out of the common way.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Mr. Derwent was not in a forgiving mood. ‘But she is a hurly-burly sort of female, lacks all sense of what is proper.’

  Her ladyship chuckled. ‘How I wish you could have seen yourself with your head upon her bosom, she holding the ‘

  ‘Thank you, Jane, I have no wish to recall so mortifying an experience.’

  Oh dear, she thought, whatever else, he’ll never forgive her for that! The two angry spots of colour in his cheeks warned her to be wary of what she said.

  ‘Tell me about this hold-up,’ she invited. ‘Harvey is of the opinion that it was set up for you, since few carriages pass along that road.’

  ‘But why take only my equipage? I had a generous roll of soft on my person had they cared to look for it.’