Deception (Daughters of Mannerling 3) (17 page)

‘At the Duchess of Hadshire’s ball, one of the footmen, who had been hired especially for the evening to augment the staff, was about to enter the refreshment room when he saw Burfield with a certain Lady Tarrant.’

‘That disgraceful lady he was driving in the Park!’

‘The same,’ said Harry, who had heard that piece of gossip as well. ‘Burfield kissed her full on the mouth and she kissed him back. The footman quickly withdrew and they did not see him.’

‘Are you sure of this?’

‘This footman fell into the company of my man in a tavern and imparted the news. Now it could be that Abigail learned of this, hence the drama in the Park when she appeared driving his curricle. But if she were to be reminded of it, if you were to suggest that he had been seen in Lady Tarrant’s company, something like that. Then, before the wedding, I will send her an anonymous note to say that Burfield is to be found at this cottage in Kensington with Lady Tarrant. She will go to confront them. Then we will have her.’

‘This is all too Gothic, too frightening,’ said Prudence, backing away. ‘Why should Abigail believe Burfield to be unfaithful to her? And all she has to do is ask him. Let me think about it.’

‘We must meet again,’ urged Harry.

‘I will be here tomorrow,’ said Prudence slowly. She knew she should have nothing to do with him or his disgraceful scheme, but the thought of stopping that wedding was too tempting.

Prudence returned home and, once there, studied again a letter of apology she had received from Abigail Beverley. Abigail had not wanted to apologize, but had done so on the advice of Miss Trumble. Miss Trumble had pointed out that no insult or goading on the part of Prudence Makepeace justified tearing off that young lady’s head-dress.

It was a pretty apology, in which Abigail said she had been overset.

Prudence wondered whether to call on Abigail. This letter gave her a good excuse. But away from Harry Devers, she felt she could not get embroiled in such a scheme.

But as ill luck would have it, that very afternoon Lord Burfield was walking back to his home from his club when he was hailed by Lady Tarrant, who was driving herself in an open carriage with her groom on the backstrap.

She hailed him and he climbed up into her carriage beside her. ‘I am not such a champion whip as your Abigail,’ said Lady Tarrant gaily. ‘Were you in the suds? And what is this I hear of hair-pulling at the Dunwoodys’ breakfast? What an exciting life you do lead.’

‘I am forgiven for the one and the other matter has settled down,’ said Lord Burfield. ‘I am the luckiest of men.’

She laughed. ‘I see the love-light in your eyes and it is not for me.’

‘Will you dance at my wedding?’

‘Gladly.’

He climbed down from the carriage and smiled up at her. She held out her hand and he kissed it. ‘I hope you are as fortunate as I,’ he said.

Prudence, passing with her mother in their carriage, saw that kiss and her heart beat hard. Why should that slut, Abigail, go proudly to her wedding, believing Burfield to be faithful?

She surprised her mother by saying, ‘I think, before we return home, we should call on the Beverleys.’

‘Never! After that disgraceful behaviour at the Dunwoodys!’

‘Abigail Beverley wrote me the most charming letter of apology. It would be churlish not to accept that apology. Besides, if we are seen to be friends, then that gossip will die. I fear I was as much to blame as Miss Beverley,’ said Prudence piously.

Mrs Makepeace was always easily swayed by her daughter. Prudence always managed to make all her actions seem right. So Mrs Makepeace weakly told the driver to take them to Lord Burfield’s home.

Now it was unfortunate that Miss Trumble had been sent back to the country by Lady Beverley on an errand. Lady Beverley had found she had left her best stole back at Brookfield House and she enjoyed the idea of making this uppity governess run errands for her.

So there was only Abigail, who was only too delighted to receive Prudence and her mother. Abigail was so much in love that she felt she could love everyone else in the whole wide world. Lady Beverley was having one of her ‘good’ days and regaled Mrs Makepeace with tales of the former glories of life at Mannerling, which gave Prudence the chance for a private little talk with Abigail.

‘I thought Burfield was much to be pitied,’ she said in a low voice, ‘and that he was sacrificing himself. But it is you, not he, who are making the best of a bad situation.’

‘What can you mean?’

‘I feel we have both been tricked by him. Firstly, he is seen kissing that shameless woman, Lady Tarrant, at the Hadshires’ ball and then he takes her driving in the Park.’

‘She is an old friend,’ said Abigail stiffly.

‘Of yours?’

‘Of his.’

‘Oh, so you do understand. When I saw him kissing her again just before we got here, and in the middle of Hanover Square, too, I thought that perhaps you did not know.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ cried Abigail.

‘Shhh! Mama will hear us, and you do not want to suffer any more scandal.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Abigail again, while jealousy like bile rose up in her.

‘All you have to do is ask Burfield if it is true,’ pointed out Prudence, and Abigail’s heart sank.

Feeling she had dropped enough poison in Abigail’s ear for the moment, Prudence, seeing her mother was ready to leave, rose as well.

Abigail paced the room after Prudence and her mother had left and her mother had retired. It could not be true. Prudence was a jealous cat and she had only called to make trouble.

When Lord Burfield returned, it was to be met by a steely-eyed fiancée. He would have been in time to meet the Makepeaces had he not met an old army friend immediately after leaving Lady Tarrant.

He made to kiss her, but Abigail drew back. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she hissed.

‘What is all this about?’ He eyed her narrowly. ‘I hear the Makepeaces called. What did they want?’

‘Oh, dear, dear Prudence called to tell me that you have just been seen kissing Lady Tarrant in the middle of Hanover Square.’

Now all Lord Burfield had to do was to tell the enraged Abigail that he had only kissed Lady Tarrant’s hand, but he felt that as she was to be his wife, she should trust him. Had he not kissed her and said he loved her?

‘I have no intention of explaining any of my actions to you,’ he said.

He saw the horror in Abigail’s eyes and added quickly, ‘Come, my love, if we are going to deal well together as a married couple, you must trust me.’

Abigail simply turned on her heel and walked from the room. Pride kept him where he was. That Abigail should listen to spiteful gossip from such as Prudence Makepeace and believe it meant she had to be taught a lesson. Had Miss Trumble been present, the matter would have resolved itself very quickly. Abigail would have confided in her and Miss Trumble would have pointed out to Lord Burfield that it was he, not Abigail, who needed to be taught a lesson, that a man who kissed a lady who was not his fiancée was a man to be easily distrusted.

But blissfully unaware of the gathering stormclouds, Miss Trumble and Barry were travelling in the comfort of Lord Burfield’s travelling-carriage, but not side by side, Barry being on the box with the coachman while Miss Trumble travelled inside. But when they stopped at a posting-house for the night, Miss Trumble asked Barry to join her for dinner in her private parlour. Barry knew it would be useless to ask the governess where she got the money for such luxuries as a private parlour in a posting-house.

‘Well, Barry,’ said Miss Trumble with a smile, ‘all’s well that ends well. Another love match.’

‘Let us hope t’other three will be as lucky,’ commented Barry.

‘I do not think I will ever be easy in my mind while the Deverses are still at Mannerling.’

Barry raised his thick grey eyebrows. ‘Don’t think, miss that any of them will look on that Mr Harry with anything more than a shudder.’

‘It’s that wretched house,’ said Miss Trumble, dissecting a whiting with surgical precision. ‘I have half a mind to set fire to the place.’

‘Nothing we can do about that.’

‘Perhaps I will use this visit home to good use,’ said Miss Trumble thoughtfully.

‘In what way?’

‘I’ll think of something,’ said the governess obscurely.

Two days later, Mrs Devers was at first haughtily amazed to learn that the governess from Brookfield House had called. She was about to refuse her an audience, but she had recently learned the news of Harry’s latest disgrace and suddenly thought that Miss Trumble might have called with some awful new scandal. She asked the butler to show Miss Trumble up.

As Miss Trumble walked up the stairs to the drawing room, the great chandelier in the hall began to tinkle. She stood on the first landing and stared at it. It was swinging in one half-circle and then slowly in another.

‘Why is that chandelier swinging?’ she said sharply to the butler’s liveried back. ‘There is no wind.’

He did not turn round. ‘I am sure you are mistaken,’ he said, walking forward and opening the double doors of the drawing room.

Mrs Devers rose and held out two fingers for Miss Trumble to shake. Miss Trumble appeared not to notice. She seized her hostess’s whole hand and pumped it vigorously.

‘Pray be seated,’ said Mrs Devers. ‘Pray, what may we do for you?’

Miss Trumble looked about the room. She was alone with Mrs Devers. The ‘we’ had been royal. ‘I am come to offer you some advice,’ said the governess.

Now Mrs Devers’s face was rigid with hauteur.

‘Indeed! I trust you are not going to deliver yourself of some impertinence, Miss Trumble.’

‘I trust not,’ said Miss Trumble equably. ‘You have no doubt heard of your son’s latest . . . er . . . escapade.’

Mrs Devers reached a hand for the bell-rope. ‘No, stay, hear me out,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘I assure you I have only your welfare at heart.’

Mrs Devers dropped her hand.

Miss Trumble leaned forward, an earnest expression on her face. ‘I firmly believe,’ she said, ‘that all poor Mr Harry’s troubles have been caused by this house.’

The look of hauteur left Mrs Devers’s face, to be replaced with one of fear. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘There is something about Mannerling which begets obsession in the finest of people,’ said Miss Trumble, relying heavily on her belief that this doting mother would forget all Harry’s bad behaviour before he ever set foot in Mannerling.

‘I believe you have the right of it,’ said Mrs Devers. ‘Harry was always a sweet boy and then a fine soldier. I believe this place to be haunted.’

‘I think it is.’ Miss Trumble lowered her voice. ‘I think it is possessed by a malign spirit. For the sake of your son’s reputation, nay, his very sanity, I beg you to sell this place.’

‘I have wanted to this age,’ said Mrs Devers. ‘But poor Harry is so devoted to the house . . .’

‘A devotion which will lead to ruin.’ The wind had risen and howled round the house. Somewhere a door banged, and from the stable block came the howl of a dog.

‘I believe you have hit on the one solution,’ said Mrs Devers slowly. ‘We can never be happy here. I will speak to Mr Devers when he returns from the estate.’

Well satisfied with her call, Miss Trumble left. Of course she did not believe all that rubbish about malign spirits or haunted houses. An uneasy part of her mind remembered that tinkling chandelier, but she mentally shrugged it off. There must be some simple explanation. The wind must have risen without her noticing it.

Barry was waiting for her in the carriage. ‘Well, miss?’ he asked curiously as they moved off down the drive.

‘Well, Barry, I have succeeded in my mission, I think. I have just persuaded Mrs Devers to sell Mannerling.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t you see, that will remove Harry away from my girls’ ambitions. Rotten place,’ said Miss Trumble, casting a savage look back at the graceful building. ‘I hope it stands empty and falls into rack and ruin!’

Prudence met Harry Devers two days before the wedding. ‘My poison worked,’ she said triumphantly. ‘They were both at the opera last night and the coldness between them was obvious for all to see. I cannot believe our luck. I was sure he would have explained everything to her!’

‘You have done your part,’ said Harry. ‘Now I will do mine.’

‘He doesn’t love me,’ said Abigail for what seemed to her twin like the hundredth time. ‘That whore Tarrant was at the opera and she gave him
such
a look. And he has had the nerve to insist she comes to our wedding and he will not listen to my protests. Oh, if only Miss Trumble were here!’

For the second time Abigail was attired in her wedding gown. ‘She is due back this afternoon, just in time for the wedding,’ said Rachel. ‘So wicked of Mama to send her away. Do you not wish to eat something?’

‘I could not eat anything,’ said Abigail dismally. ‘Where is Rupert?’

‘He is not supposed to see you until the church,’ said Rachel. ‘He received a letter which startled him. He said he had to make a call but would return in time for the wedding.’

Lord Burfield had been distressed to receive a letter by hand from an old army friend in which he said he was in great distress over a family matter and begged Lord Burfield to call on him immediately. The army friend lived in Norwood. It took Lord Burfield some time to get there but very little time to find out that he had been tricked. The army friend was in perfect health and spirits and had sent no letter. Lord Burfield was puzzled. But he had still plenty of time to drive back to Park Street, change into his wedding clothes, and get to that church.

Abigail read the letter which had been slipped into her hand by one of the footmen, holding it with shaking hands, blinking her eyes to get those dreadful words back into focus. Purporting to come from ‘a friend,’ the letter stated that on that very day, Lord Burfield was entertaining his mistress at Ivy Cottage, Bark Lane, on the far side of the village of Kensington. It was doubtful if he could leave her arms to get to the church.

Then she roused herself from her shocked stupor. She could only think of obeying the instructions of the letter which begged her, for the sake of the good name of her family, not to tell anyone where she was going. She locked her bedroom door, took off her wedding gown, put on a riding dress and then slipped down the back stairs, unobserved.