Rainbird's Revenge (2 page)

‘And if your honour would care to grace our ball,' said Mrs Sykes, feeling breathless after the impact of that smile, ‘I am sure the Assembly Committee would be most honoured.'

The tall man surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps,' he said. ‘We shall see. Please let me know as soon as the room is ready.'

Mrs Sykes curtsied again and left.

The two men sat down. ‘Well, Fergus,' said the tall man, ‘shall I visit this rustic ball?'

‘If it amuses your grace,' said his servant. ‘But why the masquerade? Why not tell the landlord you are the great and noble Duke of Pelham?'

‘Because I am tired of toad-eaters and fortune hunters,' said the duke lazily. ‘I wish a short holiday from the breed. You know that, Fergus. We have been together for many years now and through many battles. I allow you more licence than anyone else. But if I choose to remain incognito for this one evening, that is my affair.'

A flicker of affection lit the duke's eyes as he glanced at the disapproving lines of Fergus's sunburned face: Fergus, once devoted batman, now valet, companion, and sometimes adviser.

‘But the servants at that accursed London house know your identity,' said Fergus.

‘Yes.'

‘I do not know why your grace should choose to spend the Season at Sixty-seven Clarges Street.'

‘Because, or had you forgot, my town house in Grosvenor Square is being redecorated, so I must reside in the lesser of my town properties.'

‘But your father killed himself there, your grace!'

‘We are but lately returned from the wars in the Peninsula, and yet you have managed to listen to gossip about me, Fergus.'

‘Is it not true?'

‘Yes. But I am not sentimental. Nor do I believe in ghosts. I knew little of my father, and the little I knew I did not like. Clarges Street will do very well. Perhaps the delights of the Season will remove some of this ennui that plagues me.'

His servant looked at him slyly. ‘Or perhaps some beauty will take your interest.'

The duke sighed. ‘Women are only interested in money,' he said. ‘They are mercenary to a fault.'

‘There might be some unspoiled and fresh country beauty at this ball,' said Fergus, chatting easily to his employer with the casual friendliness which had developed between master and servant during the bloody campaigns against Napoleon's soldiers.

‘Women are spoilt from birth,' said the duke. ‘The subject bores me. Talk about something else.'

*   *   *

Miss Jenny Sutherland looked at her own appearance in the glass with extreme satisfaction. It was a pity, she thought, not for the first time, that such beauty should be wasted on the country air. But her aunt, Lady Letitia Colville, who could have well afforded to take her to London for a Season, showed absolutely no signs of doing so.

Jenny
was
pretty. Masses of soft dark hair framed a delicate face. She had large brown eyes with long black lashes, a short straight nose, and a perfect mouth. Her figure was soft and feminine and she had a tiny waist – not often shown to advantage in the latest styles, where the waist had moved up to somewhere just below the bosom.

Her parents had died when she was six years old from the ‘French cold' – the name for influenza – the French being blamed for any illness, from a cold in the head to the pox. Her spinster aunt, Lady Letitia, had elected to bring her up. Personal beauty, rather than her aunt's upbringing, had spoilt Jenny. She had become used to hearing from an early age from a doting governess how very beautiful she was, so that her aunt's efforts at instilling some modesty in her brain had gone to waste.

She was wearing a dress of silver spider gauze over a white slip. A coronet of white silk flowers and silver ribbons nestled among her curls. Jenny knew she was in no danger of being a wallflower at the assembly that evening. At all previous assemblies she had been the belle of the ball.

Her maid entered carrying a warm shawl, fan, and reticule. Jenny did not like the choice of fan and wanted to send the maid, Cooper, to look for another, but refrained from doing so, for Cooper would report even such a minor task to Lady Letitia, and Lady Letitia would promptly accuse Jenny of giving the servants unnecessary work.

Carrying an oil lamp, Cooper lit the way downstairs to the drawing room for Jenny. Lady Letitia was sitting by the drawing-room fire.

She was a slim woman in her early forties. Her hair was thick and brown without a trace of grey and her small black eyes were sharp and sparkling. She had a neat, rather flat-chested figure, long white hands, and long, narrow feet encased in kid dancing slippers. She wore a velvet turban and a gown of crimson velvet fastened with gold frogs over an underdress of dull-green silk.

She looked up as Jenny entered the room, wishing again that the girl were not quite so dazzlingly beautiful. Lady Letitia found herself hoping there would be some gentleman at the ball who would catch her flighty niece's fancy – some gentleman who would have no interest in Jenny at all. What she needs, thought Lady Letitia, is a good set-down. It was not as if Jenny were cruel or unkind. It was merely that she had obviously become accustomed to thinking her beauty too great for any of the local gentry. In short, she was vain.

Perhaps I should have taken her to London
, mused Lady Letitia.
There are many beauties there, and competition is just what she needs. But London is full of rakes and fribbles. Better with a country husband.

‘How do I look?' asked Jenny, pirouetting in front of her aunt.

‘Very suitable,' said Lady Letitia repressively.

Jenny laughed. ‘I can never wring a compliment from you, dear Aunt.'

‘It is as well there is someone in the world who does not spoil you,' said Lady Letitia. ‘My pelisse, Cooper.'

Lady Letitia lived in a large mansion outside the town of Barminster. It was a busy market town, being on the main road from Bristol to London. Although many London-bound strangers often stayed at The Bell, few ever graced the assemblies, being too tired from travelling to think of attending a local ball.

After Jenny had left her shawl in an ante-room and joined her aunt in the hall outside the double doors that led to the ballroom, she began to feel tremors of excitement, as if something momentous were about to happen.

They were somewhat late, vain Jenny deliberately delaying her toilette so that she might make an appearance.

‘Good Gad,' muttered the Duke of Pelham as Jenny entered the room, followed by Lady Letitia.

‘There is your country beauty,' murmured Fergus from behind his master's chair. ‘And what a beauty!'

‘I wonder if she is aware of her looks,' said the duke, still studying Jenny. But there was nothing in Jenny's manner to betray her vanity, simply because Jenny had never ever had to compete with anyone.

Lady Letitia's sharp eyes immediately flew to where the Duke of Pelham was sitting. She raised her fan and whispered behind it to Mrs Chudleigh, a member of the Assembly Committee, ‘Who is that devastatingly handsome stranger?'

‘No one of any importance, I can assure you,' said Mrs Chudleigh. ‘A traveller called Mr John.'

Lady Letitia looked covertly across the room at the handsome, haughty face and murmured, ‘I am surprised to learn he is a plain “mister”. I would say he is used to commanding a great number of people.'

‘Possibly,' said Mrs Chudleigh with a superior titter. ‘His servant has put it about that his master was an army captain but recently sold out.'

Jenny, who had been joined by several of her friends, soon learned the identity of the handsome stranger as well.

‘Mama says she will shoot me if I so much as look at a lowly captain,' giggled Miss Euphemia Vickers, one of Jenny's friends. ‘But he is so handsome and has such an air.'

As the dance progressed, a feeling of animosity towards the ‘captain' grew among the guests. For he did not dance. He merely looked curiously at the dancers like an entomologist examining the mating habits of a rare breed of insect.

And then Mr Sykes, the landlord, sidled up to Mrs Chudleigh and whispered, ‘There is a Lord Paul Mannering but lately arrived and desirous to attend the ball.'

‘A lord!' cried Mrs Chudleigh. ‘But of course he has our permission. In fact, I do not even need to consult the other members of the committee.'

Mr Sykes bowed and withdrew. Mrs Chudleigh flew from one to the other to herald the arrival of this Lord Paul Mannering. Another member of the committee, who studied the Peerage as others might study their Bible, reported that Lord Paul was the youngest son of the old Duke of Inchkin, a widower, and a general in Wellington's army.

As the room buzzed with all this exciting gossip, the Duke of Pelham suddenly rose to his feet and made his way towards Jenny. She saw his coming with alarm. What if this Lord Paul should suddenly appear? It was the supper dance, and she would be tied to this Mr John – a nobody. Before he could reach her, she slipped away through a group of guests and hid behind a pillar. The duke stood frowning. He was used to young ladies standing rooted to the spot, trembling with anticipation should he deign to approach them. He shrugged and returned to his seat.

‘It is the supper dance,' muttered Fergus.

‘I'll take someone, anyone in, feed, and then go to bed,' yawned the duke. ‘It has been fun watching all these pleasant English people enjoying themselves, but now I am monstrous bored.'

But he was not precisely bored. He was piqued and irritated by that young beauty who had fled before his advance. He put up his glass and surveyed the line of chaperones. In the past, he had often found one of their number a more entertaining companion to take to supper than any young miss. His eye fell on Lady Letitia and liked what it saw. He rose once more to his feet. At that moment, the doors to the assembly room opened, and Lord Paul Mannering, accompanied by a friend, walked in.

There was a ripple of disappointment among the young ladies who had expected the youngest son of a duke to be . . . well,
young
. But this man was in his early forties at least. His raven-black hair showed traces of grey and his strong, harsh face was burnt dark brown by the sun.

‘Pelham!' he cried, his eyes lighting on the duke. ‘By all that's holy, when did you return?'

‘Just before you, I think,' smiled the duke. ‘How did you get a room so easily?'

‘Wrote and booked in advance. May I introduce my friend,' said Lord Paul. ‘Pelham, this is Mr Walker. James, may I present his grace, the Duke of Pelham.'

Mrs Chudleigh, who had been listening avidly to this exchange, nearly fainted with excitement. Feathers dipped and turbans nodded as she spread this startling news about the room. Jenny's face flamed with mortification. A duke! And he had been about to ask her to dance.

‘Take your partners for the supper dance, please,' said the Master of Ceremonies for the third time – for with all this thrilling gossip, people had quite forgotten to take their places in the sets.

‘Now, let me find an agreeable lady,' said Lord Paul. ‘Ah, there is the very one.'

Jenny, standing beside Lady Letitia, who was seated, smiled and lazily waved her fan as she saw both men bearing down on her. Which should she choose? Why, the duke, of course. He was the younger and the higher in rank.

Lord Paul bent over Lady Letitia. ‘Will you do me the honour, ma'am, of dancing with me?'

Jenny let out a mortified little gasp, but there was worse to come.

‘I' faith,' said the duke, ‘you have stolen a march on me, for I meant to ask this lady myself.'

Lady Letitia looked up at both men in a dazed way.

‘But, Pelham,' said Lord Paul sweetly, ‘I asked the lady first.'

‘So you did,' said the duke. ‘I must content myself with second-best.' He looked around the room. He was very tall and his eyes ranged over Jenny's head.

Then, with a resigned little sigh, he lowered them and said to Jenny, ‘Will you do me the honour, miss?'

Jenny quickly agreed. It was infuriating to be classed as second-best, but then she consoled herself with the thought that both gentlemen had been overly gallant because of her aunt's great years.

There was little opportunity for conversation because it was a country dance, but Jenny did not expect her partners to do much more than to look at her with adoring eyes.

It was brought home to her as she finally sat beside the duke at the supper table that it was not adoration in the eyes that looked into her own, but boredom.

‘Who is that stylish lady over there?' asked the duke, waving his gold quizzing glass in Lady Letitia's direction.

‘That is my aunt, your grace.'

‘Does she possess a name?' he ask with a shade of irritation in his voice.

‘Yes, your grace. Lady Letitia Colville.'

‘Ah, the late Earl of Mallock's daughter.'

‘Yes, your grace. My aunt was my late mother's sister.'

‘And you are . . . ?'

‘Miss Jenny Sutherland, your grace.'

‘How do you know my title?'

‘It was whispered about a moment ago,' said Jenny.

He applied himself to his food. Jenny was uncomfortably aware of the duke's servant, standing at attention behind his master's chair. She looked across at her aunt. Whatever Lady Letitia had just said to Lord Paul was amusing that gentleman very much. Jenny saw that her own friends were covertly watching her and realized that this duke was demonstrating to all and sundry that he found the food on his plate much more intriguing than his partner.

‘Then if you are not a captain,' said Jenny, ‘you have not been in the wars.'

‘On the contrary, I am newly returned.'

‘How goes it with our troops?' asked Jenny, who had not the slightest interest in the war but longed to make it appear to her watching friends as if he were enraptured by her.