Deception (Daughters of Mannerling 3) (14 page)

So Harry suggested to him in a faint voice that perhaps he should rally and go to London for the Season, that such diversions as the Season had to offer might restore him. And when he suggested that the physician, Mr Sinclair, should accompany him, Mr Sinclair was all too ready to agree to the idea of a paid holiday in London.

‘It is like a riding accident, don’t you see, dear lady,’ he said to Mrs Devers after his consultation with Harry. ‘Your puir boy has been crossed in love. Were he to find a suitable lassie at the Season, it waud stabilize him wonderfully.’ And so worried were Mr and Mrs Devers about the mental condition of their son that they readily agreed to open up the town house in London.

Harry rubbed his hands. Every ball, every party Abigail attended, he would be there. He would cry brokenly when he saw her and that would damn her further than she had already been damned. It should be brought home to Burfield the shame he was bringing on his name by marrying a Beverley.

Lord Burfield had equally doting parents. He had called on the Earl and Countess of Drezby on his road to London to tell them of his forthcoming marriage, saying the reason for the speed was because he was very much in love. They were delighted for him, gave him their blessing, and said they would travel up to London to meet the bride-to-be and to attend the wedding. It was after he had left that they received a letter from Mrs Brochard, the countess’s sister, outlining succinctly why their son was marrying Abigail Beverley and how he had been entrapped. They were at their wit’s end as to what to do. Rupert, Lord Burfield, had inherited his present home and estates from a great-uncle. Threatening to disinherit him would not stop him from committing this folly. But they had to try. They ordered their travelling-carriage to be made ready. They would reason with their beloved son and make him see sense.

Feeling more cheerful than they had done for some time, the Beverley sisters arrived at Lord Burfield’s town house. Mrs Brochard welcomed them effusively, although she was privately taken aback by the incredible beauty of the girls. Fickle society forgave beauties much folly. She was also nonplussed by the mien and appearance of their governess. Although the Beverleys were quickly put at ease by their welcome, although Lady Beverley immediately complained of feeling ill due to the rigours of her journey and retired to her room, this Miss Trumble had a sharp look in her eyes and Mrs Brochard had an odd idea that her welcome had not deceived the governess one little bit. In fact, Miss Trumble seemed more like the head of the family than Lady Beverley and asked Mrs Brochard if she had successfully ‘nursed the ground,’ that is, secured invitations to the polite world for her charges.

‘It is very difficult,’ complained Mrs Brochard. ‘I have done my best, but you must realize, Miss Trouble—’

‘ Trumble.’

‘. . . Trumble, that the circumstances of Miss Abigail’s marriage have already reached London and no one is willing to invite anyone with such a shocking reputation.’ There was a little gleam of triumph in her eyes as she said this.

‘Tell me,’ said Miss Trumble, ‘what is the next most important social event?’

‘The Duchess of Hadshire’s ball. But the invitations have been out this age and the duchess is a high stickler.’

‘And when does this ball take place?’

‘Next Wednesday, in a week’s time. Forgive me for pointing this out, but you have an authoritative air which does not befit a mere governess, Miss Trumble.’

‘Oh, I beg to disagree,’ said Miss Trumble placidly. She rose and curtsied and left the room.

Miss Trumble arrived at the Duchess of Hadshire’s later that day in a hack. She stood outside for a moment and then took a rather worn card out of her reticule, a visiting card she had not used for some time.

She knocked loudly at the door. The butler who answered it raised his eyebrows in supercilious surprise to see an elderly lady without any maid or footman demanding an audience with his mistress. ‘I am afraid her grace is not at home,’ he said. The door began to close.

‘Give her grace my card,’ said Miss Trumble, edging into the space still left in the doorway. ‘I assure you, she will be most upset should she learn I had been turned away.’

The butler hesitated a moment. Miss Trumble’s air was haughty. He inclined his head. ‘Be so good as to wait here.’ He would have left her on the step, but with surprising energy Miss Trumble pushed past him, walked to a chair in the hall and sat down.

He ascended to the drawing room, his back stiff with disapproval. In a few minutes he returned, his manner totally changed. He bowed low. ‘Be so good as to follow me.’

Gathering up her skirts, Miss Trumble followed him upstairs into a light, pretty drawing room. The Duchess of Hadshire ran towards her, both hands outstretched. ‘Letitia,’ she cried. ‘I thought you were dead.’ The duchess was a still-pretty woman in her late thirties. She wore a flowered muslin gown and a lace cap as delicate as a cobweb on her brown hair. Her odd sherry-coloured eyes gazed on Miss Trumble with affection. ‘Where have you been? No one has heard of you this age.’

So Miss Trumble began to talk while the duchess listened wide-eyed. When Miss Trumble had finished, she said, ‘You always were a rebel. Do you remember that gentleman I was so determined to marry and you would have none of it and you introduced me to my dear duke? I owe you a great deal. So you wish an invitation to my ball for the dreadful Beverleys. Of course you shall have the invitations. Mrs Brochard will be furious, of course.’

‘Why? I cannot go about in society, as you know, and she is supposed to be chaperoning them.’

‘Mrs Brochard called on me to bewail the fact that no member of society of any breeding would ever dream of entertaining the Beverleys. As I had not intended to ask them, I did not pay her much heed, but I gather she has been busy trying to ensure that everyone knows of the scandal. She does not approve of the engagement.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘Yes, there is a very great favour I wish to ask of you, Harriet . . . I wish you to make a call . . .’

‘So you say,’ Lord Burfield was exclaiming, ‘that you have not managed to secure even one invitation for the ladies?’

The Beverley sisters, Lord Burfield, and Mrs Brochard were taking tea in his town house.

‘Alas, it is so difficult,’ mourned Mrs Brochard. ‘I am afraid the scandal about that wedding at Mannerling reached London before you.’ She spread her thin hands in a Gallic gesture. ‘I am afraid no one wants to entertain them.’

Abigail hung her head.

Lord Burfield felt a surge of anger. What a twofaced lot they were in society, always gleefully looking for something to be shocked about. It was a world in which ladies sent cuttings of their pubic hair to Lord Byron and where married ladies entertained lovers, and yet all delighted in the humiliation of a virgin.

Then the drawing-door opened and Miss Trumble walked in with the Duchess of Hadshire. ‘We met on the doorstep,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘I once worked for her grace’s mother. Her grace is one of my former pupils.’

She made the introductions and sent a servant to rouse Lady Beverley. Hearing that a duchess was in the drawing room was enough to make Lady Beverley forget she was supposed to be ill. She hurried to join the company, thankful that she had been already dressed and lying on a day-bed in her room when she received the news of the duchess’s arrival.

The duchess was maliciously amused by the consternation in the eyes of Mrs Brochard. Then she surveyed the dreadful Beverleys with interest. They were outstandingly beautiful. She could understand why the twins had been able to fool Harry Devers at the wedding. They were looking-glass twins, although Abigail appeared the stronger character. Lady Beverley came in looking remarkably well for a lady who only that morning had been claiming to be at death’s door.

After tea had been served, the duchess, with every appearance of enjoyment, dropped her bombshell. ‘I am come,’ she began, delicately setting down her teacup on a satinwood table beside her, ‘to beg you to forgive the lateness of these invitations and to come to my ball next Wednesday.’

‘We are charmed . . . charmed to accept,’ said Lady Beverley.

‘I know this is going against your wishes, Mrs Brochard,’ said the duchess sweetly, ‘for you were most insistent when you called on me that no lady of the
ton
would dream of inviting your charges. I believe you told the same story to every other influential hostess in London.’

‘That cannot be true!’ exclaimed Lord Burfield.

‘But,’ went on the duchess blithely, ‘I realized that this is Harry Devers we are talking about, that lecher and madman, enough to drive any girl of sensibility out of her wits. So I am come to beg you to attend.’

‘That is most gracious of you,’ said Lady Beverley.

The duchess opened her reticule and laid the invitations on the table. ‘Now I must go,’ she said, rising to her feet. Everyone rose. The ladies curtsied. Lord Burfield bowed, and only Lizzie near the door saw that as the duchess passed Miss Trumble, one eyelid drooped in a mischievous wink.

There was a long silence after she had left, and then Lord Burfield said in a thin voice, ‘My study, I think, Aunt.’ He walked to the door and held it open. Mrs Brochard swept angrily past him.

Once they were in the study, he shut the door and confronted her. ‘How dare you!’ he demanded wrathfully. ‘You were supposed to restore their reputations, not sabotage them.’

‘The duchess is mistaken,’ said Mrs Brochard. ‘I have been pleading with various hostesses to give them invitations.’

‘I only need to make a few calls to prove you are lying.’

‘I tried to save you from your folly!’ cried Mrs Brochard. ‘With all the young ladies available, did you need to choose such a hussy?’

‘I will not listen to one word of criticism against Abigail Beverley.’

‘And there is that sweet creature, Prudence Makepeace. So rich, so suitable.’

‘When did you meet her?’

‘She called here with her parents when you were at your club. They agree with me that you are about to make a disastrous marriage.’

‘Enough!’ he said furiously. ‘Pack your bags and get out!’

After she had left, he buried his head in his hands. The fact was that he was now regretting his proposal to Abigail. She was quiet and meek and subdued and not at all the girl he had believed her to be. But he could not go back on his proposal. He had obtained a special license. There was nothing he could do but go through with it.

He roused himself to take his affianced out for a drive. She sat miserably beside him and answered him in monosyllables. He heaved a tired little sigh. Perhaps he should have let his aunt have full rein.

To the sisters’ dismay, Miss Trumble was not to accompany them to the ball. ‘I have not been invited,’ she said firmly.

‘But the duchess is very fond of you,’ said Lizzie. ‘I even saw her wink at you!’

‘You are mistaken,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘Duchesses do not wink.’

She kept them busy right up to the ball, practising their dancing steps, making sure they still knew how to walk gracefully, to hold a conversation, and to flirt in a genteel manner.

Then the day of the ball passed in a flurry of hairdressing and pinning and making last-minute embellishments to their toilettes.

Miss Trumble heaved a sigh of relief when she waved goodbye to them. They were looking vastly pretty and Abigail had recovered some of her spirits.

The duchess’s town house in Grosvenor Square was ablaze with lights. Music filtered out through the drizzly London air. Abigail felt a lightening of spirit. Tonight she would forget all about her shame and present a brave face to society. Miss Trumble had said they must not look at all downcast, no matter what happened.

The first hour of the ball went well. All were curious about these famous Beverleys. And then disaster struck in the form of Harry Devers. The minute he arrived and saw Abigail waltzing in the arms of Lord Burfield, he began to cry most bitterly. Several men led him off to the refreshment room to drown his sorrows. Everyone began to say, ‘Poor Harry. Those Beverleys have no shame.’ Lord Burfield could only dance with Abigail twice, and she and her sisters suddenly found that no one wanted to dance with them. Although Lord Burfield took Abigail in for supper, Belinda, Rachel, and Lizzie had to go in with their mother. The duchess did what she could, but the weeping Harry had gathered too much sympathy about him. Lord Burfield decided he should take them all home before their humiliation became any worse.

But after supper there was to be a performance by a famous opera singer before the dancing recommenced. Harry, fortified by brandy, took a seat in the front row for the performance so that everyone could see him.

And then, to his horror, his ex-mistress, the opera singer Maria Lani, walked onto the small temporary stage. The accompanist rippled over the introductory notes. Maria opened her splendid mouth, her magnificent bosom heaved, and then she saw Harry.

Her eyes blazed. ‘I cannot sing with that man in front of me,’ she said. ‘Harry Devers tried to rape me.’

Harry had drunk too much brandy. He stared at her through a drunken red mist. ‘You whore,’ he shouted. ‘You liked it well enough. You used to moan and cry for more.’

The gentlemen who had earlier so tenderly escorted him to the refreshment room now bore down on him and carried him out, kicking and screaming abuse.

Maria began to sing. Society sat in a stunned silence. The minute the recital was over, there was an excited buzz of gossip. There was Abigail Beverley, beautiful and delicate. No wonder she had fled such a satyr. She could not have coerced Burfield into marriage, for, under the circumstances, he had not needed to propose to her. And was not Burfield one of the biggest prizes on the marriage market? He could have had anyone. The tongues wagged busily. When the dancing recommenced, all the Beverley sisters had partners and Lord Burfield was able to relax.

So everything would have been comfortable from then on had not a certain Lady Tarrant approached Lord Burfield. She was his age, in her early thirties, witty, amusing with a clever jolie-laide face. Her mouth was too large and generous for beauty and her eyes too small. He had once fancied himself a little bit in love with her, but she had gone off and married old Lord Tarrant who, he remembered with a little shock, had died only the year before. She was wearing a daring dress of green gauze and Roman sandals which showed that she had painted her toenails gold.