Deception (Daughters of Mannerling 3) (13 page)

‘Not good, Miss Lizzie, and that’s a fact. They do say that Mr Harry is gone into a decline, what with the shame of it all.’

Lizzie paled. ‘What if he dies and Abigail is blamed for it?’

‘Now, then,’ said Barry comfortably, ‘I did not mean to alarm you. See, to my way of thinking, Mr Harry is so keen to get out of the army and stay at Mannerling that he will pull every trick in the book. I do not believe for a moment that one is really ill.’

Harry sat at the toilet-table in his bedroom and carefully applied another layer of white lead cosmetic to his face. He then extracted a little lampblack and applied interesting dark circles under his eyes.

He practised a few groans and, satisfied with the effect, he climbed back into bed, pulled the
Sporting Life
from under his pillows where he had hidden it, and settled back for an enjoyable read.

After a few moments, he heard someone approaching. He thrust the paper under his pillow and uttered a few of those well-rehearsed groans. His father and mother came into the room and stood at the end of his bed, looking at him with worry etched on their faces.

‘I have news for you, son,’ said his father in a low voice. ‘Although the wedding did not take place, it is clear to me that you are unfit to return to the army because of the way you have been humiliated. To that end, I agree to your selling out. You may remain here quietly until such time as, God willing, your health is restored.’

‘Thank you, Papa,’ said Harry in a weak and trembling voice.

‘We will leave you now. Try to sleep.’

As soon as they had left, Harry got out of bed and performed a victory dance on the floor. Mannerling was his! No more army. He would try to keep up the pretence of illness and mental ruin for as long as he could. Then he would be free to be lord and master of all he surveyed. That would mean getting his parents to move out. But he felt Machiavellian. He could handle anything!

I’m not a jealous woman, but I can’t see what he sees in her, I can’t see what he sees in her, I can’t see what he sees in her.

SIR ALAN PATRICK HERBERT

Belinda confided to Lizzie in a hushed whisper that she could not help feeling excited at the forthcoming visit to London. Lizzie murmured back, ‘It does feel wicked to be looking forward to it so much, what with Mama confined to her room with another of her mysterious illnesses and Rachel and Abigail red-eyed with weeping. But it will be so wonderful to escape from here and the shadow of disgrace.’

‘It’s a shadow that will follow us to London,’ warned Belinda.

‘Oh, I know that. But we will be going
out!
Not sitting indoors mourning the Beverleys’ lost reputation. And Miss Trumble says that we must behave like perfect little ladies so that society will begin to remember Harry’s awful reputation and not think too hardly of Abigail. But I am so glad Miss Trumble is with us again,’ said Lizzie.

‘So am I. She is now so cheerful and reassuring, and keeps talking of how pleasant it will be to have a box at the opera again. I asked her when she had ever had a box at the opera, and how could a governess manage to be accepted by the opera committee to even have a box because, as you know, they are worse than the patronesses of Almack’s.’

‘To which Miss Trumble no doubt said that it was a previous employer who had the box,’ said Lizzie.

‘Exactly.’

‘There is a mystery about our Miss Trumble. Companions are usually bullied just like governesses, and yet Lady Evans treated her with every respect, quite like an old friend. A number of governesses actually come from very good families who have fallen on hard times,’ said Lizzie.

‘That must be the case,’ agreed Belinda. ‘But I am a little disappointed. I wanted the mystery about Miss Trumble to turn out to be something really dramatic.’

‘I cannot imagine anything at all dramatic in our sober Miss Trumble’s past,’ said Lizzie. ‘We have not really discussed this Lord Burfield, and yet I had some conversation with him at Lady Evans’s ball.’

‘You did not tell me that!’

‘I felt it was something I was supposed to keep a secret and yet I suppose I can tell you, now that he is to be our brother-in-law and has behaved most handsomely. I was sitting in a corner at the ball and Prudence Makepeace, a not-so-young lady, was sitting with him. When his attention was distracted, I saw this Prudence slip something into his glass. Well, I was afraid to make a scene but frightened she might have been trying to poison him, so I switched the glasses!’

‘Lizzie!’

‘She staggered off shortly after having drunk what was in the glass. Lord Burfield went to find out what had happened and it turned out to have been laudanum. I think she wanted to stop him calling on Abigail!’

‘This Prudence will no doubt be furious then when she learns of Abigail’s marriage.’

‘I doubt if we shall see her again,’ said Lizzie. ‘We shall be in London, and this Prudence will no doubt be somewhere in the country. She is too old to expect another Season.’

‘How old?’

‘Oh, middle twenties, something ancient like that.’

‘I hope I never get to be that old without being wed,’ said Belinda.

Abigail and Rachel went out for a walk the day before their departure for London. Both had eyes red with constant weeping. Abigail now could not think of any way to justify her mad behaviour. Rachel felt her twin’s shame and yet took comfort from the fact that she had not had to marry the dreadful Harry.

‘How could I have been so naive about him?’ mourned Rachel, not for the first time.

‘It was wishful thinking,’ said Abigail sadly, a tear spilling down her cheek. ‘He seemed such a reformed character and we were all so willing to believe he would make you a suitable husband and that Jessica had exaggerated. I did not know until yesterday that Jessica had refused to attend the wedding. Mama kept that from us, saying that Jessica was ill and that Isabella was unable to travel from Ireland. There was a letter this morning from Jessica to Miss Trumble. I did not ask her what was in it, for I am sure it would be full of recriminations.’

‘Pooh, Jessica made the same mistake herself,’ said Rachel. ‘We have not talked of Lord Burfield, Abigail.’

‘He is kind, but I am frightened that he, too, will turn out to be some sort of monster. I wish we knew more about gentlemen.’

‘No one could be as bad as Harry Devers,’ said Rachel fervently. ‘Barry says he is still keeping to his bed, but says he is probably trying to coerce his parents into buying him out of the army, and in the meantime making our shame worse by acting the part of the broken man.’

‘I seem to have lost my courage,’ said Abigail in a low voice. ‘I was always so confident and felt so strong. It will not be at all difficult for me to behave well in London. I do not think I will ever again feel anything other than meek and crushed.’

Rachel kicked at a grass turf moodily with her halfboot. ‘And yet,’ she said slowly, ‘are we entirely to blame? Harry played his part so well and Mr and Mrs Devers played theirs. We are young and naive. Despite Miss Trumble’s excellent teaching, we have been trained to believe that our only mission in life is to find husbands. Even Miss Trumble is determined that we should marry. And just look how society damns spinsters, calling them ape-leaders and worse.’

‘If only I were rich,’ sighed Abigail, ‘then I could thank Lord Burfield for his generous offer and refuse him.’

‘I do not think you have ever looked at him clearly,’ said Rachel, giving her twin a sidelong look. ‘He is very handsome, intelligent, and amusing.’

‘I agree. But I feel nothing more for him than friendship.’

‘I believe that is more than any miss in these wicked days can expect. Oh, well, perhaps things will not be too bad in London. We are to stay with Mrs Brochard, Lord Burfield’s aunt, until you are wed. I do hope she is a pleasant lady and does not disapprove of us too much.’

‘I do not think she can, or she would have refused to have anything to do with us,’ said Abigail. ‘Miss Trumble says she does not plan to go out with us socially very much and so we will certainly need someone other than Mama to chaperone us. I think Mama is going to retreat into her imaginary illnesses for quite some time.’

Mrs Brochard was a thin little French lady who had come to England after the French Revolution, or, as it was still known, the Bourgeois Uprising. Apart from her black eyes and dyed black hair and elegance of dress, there was nothing very French about her. Her accents were those of the English ruling class and she did not even lard her conversation with French phrases, as was fashionable in society. She had accepted her nephew’s, Lord Burfield’s, offer to chaperone his fiancée and her family until his wedding for one reason only: to see if she could sabotage this most unsuitable alliance.

Having only the sparse information that Abigail Beverley was good
ton
and intelligent, Mrs Brochard immediately got her spies out to learn more and found out all about that disastrous wedding at Mannerling.

To this practical, hard-headed, and unemotional Frenchwoman, who had never been softened by any love, either for her late husband or for any of her ten children, eight of whom had died before the age of five years, it all seemed very straightforward. Abigail had not chosen her nephew’s bedroom by accident. She had deliberately set out to entrap him. Mrs Brochard also found out that there seemed to be so little of a dowry that it was practically negligible, and that confirmed her worst fears. She dug further and learned all about the Beverley obsession with their old home. At first she had sat down to pen a strong letter to her nephew telling him that she would have nothing to do with such a disgraceful family. But then she tore up the letter and with long, thin, beringed fingers dropped the scraps on the floor and sucked the end of her quill. Rupert of course would know every circumstance of the Beverleys and he was no fool, and yet he still wanted to marry this Abigail. So the poor man must be besotted. Opposition to the marriage would mean that he would simply find another chaperone for these disgraceful girls.

No, she must entertain them and appear pleasant on the surface and plot underneath.

Lord Burfield arrived to take up residence. Awaiting the arrival of the Beverleys, Mrs Brochard received a card from a Mr, Mrs, and Miss Makepeace, her butler saying they were asking for Lord Burfield.

Mrs Brochard tapped the card thoughtfully. She could send a message downstairs to say Lord Burfield was at his club. She knew
of
the Makepeaces, of course. She knew about everyone in society. The daughter was a great heiress. ‘Send them up,’ she commanded her butler.

Mrs Brochard adjusted her lace cap in the mirror and straightened her damask gown before turning to the door with a smile of welcome on her rouged lips.

When the Makepeaces entered, she said effusively, ‘Lord Burfield is at his club, but any friends of my nephew must be friends of mine. Welcome.’ She rang the bell. ‘Tea? Wine?’ They accepted the offer of tea.

When tea was served and the customary chit-chat about the Season was dealt with, Mrs Brochard said, ‘You are close friends of Burfield?’

‘We had the pleasure of being guests at his home,’ said Mrs Makepeace. She heaved a little sigh and Prudence dabbed at one dry eye with a wisp of handkerchief.

‘Your daughter is a diamond of the first water,’ remarked Mrs Brochard, her eyes sharpening. ‘ ’Tis a wonder some gentleman has not snapped her up.’

‘Prudence was engaged but her fiancé was killed,’ said Mrs Makepeace. ‘Recently, we did think we had found the perfect match for her . . . but, alas, it was not to be.’

‘Was it Burfield you intended for your daughter?’ asked Mrs Brochard bluntly.

‘We did think there was an interest there, and when he invited us to his home . . . But now he has been ensnared – oh, I do beg your pardon, Mrs Brochard, I meant affianced, of course – to Abigail Beverley, my poor little Prudence must look elsewhere.’

Mrs Brochard was interested in money. The fortunes of society rattled through her brain like the beads on an abacus, until she stopped short at one bright bead which stood for Makepeace. The money came from coal mines in Yorkshire, she remembered, but that could hardly be classified as trade, as many of the aristocracy enriched themselves from coal on their lands. This Prudence was attractive and genteel. She felt a renewed burst of fury against the conniving Beverleys, but she said mildly, ‘I am expecting the arrival of the Beverley family soon and will be chaperoning them until the wedding. I would do anything for my nephew, you understand, although I believe that family is in deep disgrace. You know the scandal?’

The Makepeaces nodded sorrowfully.

‘It would be vulgar of me to discuss Burfield’s affairs. All I will say is he is not married
yet
!’ And they all smiled at each other like conspirators.

After they had left, Mrs Brochard went out to call on various society ladies, and at each house she bemoaned the fact that she had to chaperone such disreputable girls. ‘Burfield thinks they will restore their good names when society sees them,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But what member of society is going to stoop to entertain such a parcel of adventurers?’

And so various ladies of the
ton,
who had been considering inviting the Beverley sisters out of sheer curiosity, now mentally cancelled those invitations.

John, the footman at Mannerling, learned through the newspapers of Abigail’s engagement. The newspapers had been kept from Harry, so John made sure he got them, along with a regular supply of brandy. He also informed Harry that the Beverleys had gone to London and were being chaperoned by Lord Burfield’s aunt, Mrs Brochard.

Harry listened to all this with a blank look of boredom, but as soon as the footman had left, he hurled the newspapers across the room in a fury. He was not going to let them get away with it. They should never be forgiven. They should all be ostracized for the rest of their days and go to their graves spinsters. But what could he do about it, confined to his room as he was, playing the invalid? He became determined to find a way of going up to London himself and spiking their guns. He was attended daily by the physician, a cunning old Scotchman who was quite prepared to humour the foibles of the rich. He knew Harry was not ill with anything other than an occasional overdose of brandy.