Raven's Ransom (13 page)

“You jest, surely.”

“I have never been more serious. I wager you have not approached Miss
Chartley
for her hand.”

“No, and I do not intend to.”

Lord Rochester breathed easier and walked back to the table. He was just congratulating himself on his quick thinking, when Lord Barrymore continued.

“I intend to abduct her, you see.” A smile lurked about his eyes. No doubt Lily would deem that
very
good sport!

“You cur! I shall foil you, be warned.”

“My private life is none of your business, Rochester!”

“Maybe I shall
make
it so, if it impinges on mine.”

The viscount stared at him in astonishment. “Jumping Jupiter, Gareth! You don’t mean to tell me
you
are after the Raven’s Ransom?”

Gareth looked at him in distaste. “Hardly.” He wanted to grind Lord Barrymore’s handsome nose into the butter dish, but good manners and a lifetime of calm civility prevented such a hasty recourse.

“Oh, then it matters not what I do with my Miss Chartley! At all events, she shall be the Viscountess Barrymore, soon, and quite above reproach! If it eases your conscience a little, I swear she shall not be despoiled before she is wed. It might interest you to know, my lord Rochester, that this is not simply a question of the ransom. My feelings, in this matter, are really very much engaged. Quite unaccountable, really, for a bachelor life has always seemed rather advantageous to one of my free spirit.”

“I’m sure it
has.
” Civil as he was, my lord Rochester could not keep the irony from his tone as he surveyed his rival. What a damnable pity he actually
liked
the man, for otherwise he might surely be forgiven for booting him from his home. It would do his immaculate cream buckskins the world of good, no doubt, to have boot polish applied to the posterior seams.

Barrymore grinned, ignoring entirely the sarcastic tone. “Well, I suspect it is a parson’s mousetrap for
everyone
at some stage, and at least the chit is pretty!”

“The ‘chit,’ as you call her, is about to be sponsored by my mother! She shall doubtless be residing in my town house for the rest of the Season, so your plans, sir, shall have to be revised.”

Barrymore frowned, then swiftly did as the urbane Lord Rochester had sarcastically suggested. He revised his plans. He would carry Lily off immediately. Tonight, if that was possible, for he had no desire to cause a scandal by breaching the lovely Lady Rochester’s private gardens. If
she
were Lily’s chaperone, he would be doomed to an endless spate of morning calls and perhaps, at best, a trip to Astley’s circus. He shuddered, a little, at the thought.

“Very well, I shall do as you suggest. Now come off your high ropes, if you please. I had no
notion
you could be so stiff-rumped! Cry friends, shall we?”

Gareth, accosted by appealing blue eyes and a light hearted lilt of the lips, melted a degree, reminding himself sternly to look to his laurels if he wanted to secure Primrose’s future not as the Viscountess Barrymore, but as the eminently more preferable—to himself, of course—Marchioness of Rochester. He hoped his suit would not be too irksome to Primrose, who thus far had appeared to display a gratifying degree of affection for himself. Still, there was no accounting for young ladies’ tastes, especially as the rascal he was now shaking hands with so civilly had the face of an angel, with deplorably romantic locks that glinted a little with gold.

For the first time, Gareth, Lord Rochester, questioned his dark, aristocratic countenance. There was a whisper of silver creeping into his luxurious, ebony hair that spoke of substance and maturity rather than Grecian gods endowed with eternal youth. He sighed a little, then handed Barrymore his stylish cane. Barrymore had the confounded impudence to wink as he took it, and Gareth found himself smiling, a little, in response.

“I shall write to Trevithic and Stephenson today.”

“Thank you. I am anxious to set the business in motion. This color is splendid, do you mind?”

Gareth had no time to reply, for Denver had whisked one of his mother’s prime blooms from her vase and was inserting it, jauntily, into his buttonhole.

Drat the man! He
did
have the advantage of a certain spontaneous style.

Lord Rochester wondered which elements would appeal to Primrose more, then pushed the gloomy thought from his mind. The lady would undoubtedly decide. He hoped it was sooner, rather than later.

Three men laid careful plans. Two of them were wise enough to procure special licenses. The third, rather less precipitant, had armed himself merely with an enormous bunch of hothouse roses and a basket of oranges that were as sweet as they were unseasonable. A merchant in London’s seedier south side was even now congratulating himself on his enterprising venture, for the rather regal gentleman, dressed impeccably in doeskin breeches and a morning coat of enviable azure blue, had paid him handsomely for his trouble.

He would know him again, that one, for his mount was a perfect Arabian of ice white, blessed with a proud stance and a high stepper to boot. It would not, he knew regret fully, be for sale. Matthew Bludgewick of Trentham Place, as he liked to rather royally describe his habitation, was a keen man for horseflesh. He also knew the gentry when he saw it. This man, though neither stiff-rumped nor too high in the instep, was undoubtedly that. With a small shrug, he watched him trot off across the cobbles, the delectable fruit adding a little color to the saddlebag.

Lord Rochester hoped that the oranges would find favor. He felt a little foolish, arriving unannounced at Lord Raven’s residence with a bouquet that obscured his skillfully tied neckerchief and a basket of citrus that, however sweet, should certainly rather have been delivered. The butler would probably send him around to the servants’ entrance! The thought made him smile, a little, as he waited for his imperious knock upon the ornate brass door knocker to be answered.

He did not have to wait long, for the under butler was becoming used to the ebb and tide of morning corners that seemed to perpetually be thronging to Lord Raven’s door. Each asked after him respectfully, but there could be no doubt, of course, that it was the
Chartley
sisters that was the attraction. Now, Lord Raven’s manservant raised his eyes a little at the sight confronting him. He stepped back, a tad, to receive the flowers, then stopped in surprise.

“My lord Rochester!”

“Ah, you know me. I was just about to produce a card.” The under butler, still new to his job, snickered at what he regarded as a very fine joke. Not know him indeed! The Marquis of Rochester, the very pink of the Ton!

“May I see Lord Raven, if you please?”

“Lord Raven?” The man was struck dumb. He was certain his lordship would be after Miss Primrose or Daisy or Miss Lily at the very least. And they were all in such high good looks today, tool It was a shame.

“Very well, your lordship. I shall see how he does. He has been rather ill, you understand.”

Lord Rochester’s eyes twinkled as he announced that he understood perfectly. Raven’s tempers were as famous as his disagreeable, ill-conceived ransom.

The under butler bowed and made his suddenly stately way out of the room, just stopping, for a moment, in the kitchens, to announce what a “prodigious agreeable gentleman the marquis” was before handing his message over to a disapproving Richmond.

“His lordship is not to be excited.”

“What? What?” came bellowing from the bed. “Come in here, you rag-mannered fellow! Did you say there was someone to see me? Barrymore, eh?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah, then it must be another proposal. Fetch me my walking stick, Richmond. This shall be lively.”

“My lord, you have had far too much excitement for one day. The doctor . . .”

“... is an old pie-faced, chicken-hearted, lily-livered woman! Get me my neckerchief, Richmond, before I throw this nasty concoction out the window. Are those flowers for
me
?”

“Flowers?” The under butler, in his confusion at the spectacle, had forgotten about the precious red blooms.

“I suppose so, my lord. The marquis did not say.”

The earl’s eyes gleamed. “Marquis, eh? Ah,
now
we are talking! Fetch me my diamond pin, Richmond. And my snuff.”

With a sharp look at his employer, who truth to tell,
did
look rather animated, despite his bony fingers and frail countenance, Richmond bowed and set about doing his bidding. The under butler, perceiving that this meant an affirmative reply for the visitor below stairs,
also
made his bow. He was waved away with an impatient hand, so it was not long before he was taking the steps two at a time and praying that the toffee-nosed butler would not catch him at it.

“My lord!”

“Yes?” The marquis turned from the portrait he was studying and smiled.

“The earl will see you now.”

“Ah, excellent.”

 

 

“Mama, I am bringing home the loveliest creature. I am certain, with your kindly heart, that you shall love her always.”

“Mais oui, chéri?”
The Countess of Westenbury smiled prettily upon her only son. “But zees is exciting! I shall guess this sweet creaturrre!” She rolled her
r
’
s
with greater stress than normal, for she was excited.

The viscount smiled. “You can
try!”

“It is zee ’orse?”

“No, Mama! You have enough of those!” The countess pouted a little, but her eyes twinkled.

“It is zee moonkey?”

“Monkey? Nonsense, Mother! A monkey would be very trying. It would hang from your chandeliers and cause havoc with your silk drapes.”

“It is not, zen, zee elephant?”

Lord Armand Valmont laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh that womankind seemed to dote upon and his mother loved in particular.

“No, I would
not
describe her as an elephant.”

“But aha! It is a ’er, then? ’Ow very intriguing!”

“Very.”

“But, Armand, you would not bring one of zose opera dancers—what do you call zem? ’Igh kickers? To meet me?”

“High steppers. And, Mama! How shocking!”

“Yes?” She peeped at him with a smile.

“Yes.” Armand was firm. Though he was very well acquainted with the ladybird set, he would certainly not entertain the notion of bringing one of them home. The idea was appalling.

“I geeve up,
ma cheri.
What is zees fascinating creature?”

“It is a girl, Mama. I am meant to carry her off into the sunset tonight.”

“A girl? But, Armand, you are so young!”

“Young? I am eight-and-twenty!”

“Is she preety, zees girl?”

“Oh, she is just like the little porcelain doll you brought from France.”

“Foi!
No girl can be so preety!”

“Miss Chartley can. She is livelier than your doll, though. She sparkles as she talks, and oh! Her imagination! You will love her, Mama, for she lives in a dreamworld, just like you.”

“Zat is very good, for I cannot abide girls who look at you
so
”—she pulled a rather toffee-nosed grimace—“when one talks of zee dragons and dungeons and peexie dust.”

“I can assure you, my Daisy will be quite wide-eyed in fascination.”

“Then breeng ’er to me!”

“I shall, for I am meant to carry her off into the sunset tonight, and I’ll be
damned
if I will spend three uncomfortable nights in an ill-sprung chaise to get to Gretna, when with the special license I procured today, we can be married charmingly from home!”

“Armand, you are not worthy of such a one! A ’eroine
yearns
for a leetle discomfort”

Armand chuckled.

“True, but I shall tell her I am escaping the Bow Street Runners. That shall be discomfort enough. She thinks, you see, that I am a highwayman.”

“A ’ighwayman? And the little one still wishes to marry you?”

“Fervently, I hope!” The countess clapped her hands. “I theenk I love ’er already. Bring ’er ’ome by all means. But you,
ma cher,
you must stay away.”

“Stay away?” Armand looked blank.

“It would not be feeting. Until she is your bride, it would be a scandal if you stayed.”

“But . . .”

“Armand . . .” The countess’s expressive face looked suddenly stubbornly forbidding.

“Oh, very well, Mama! Unless I have actually married her, I shall return to town upon the instant, though the horses will not thank me for it. It is pitch dark upon the roads, now that the moon is no more than a sliver of a crescent.”

Lady Valmont appeared to have little sympathy for such a paltry matter. She waved it away, in fact, with an airy gesture that did justice to her long, elegant fingers.

“Eet is good. So! If I love this . . . this . . . cornflower?”

“Daisy.”

“Daisy. You shall be married tomorrow. I
weesh
your father was not so far away!”

“The earl? He is not as romantic as you, Mama. The King’s business must come first. He will be pleased, I think, at the prospect of an heir.”

“Oh, Armand! He is not so cold as you think.”

Lord Valmont smiled. “If he chose you, Mama, he
must
have fire somewhere beneath his icy reserve!”

“Indeed!
Ma foi!
Just look how he challenged Raven when the man tried to ... to ...”

“Mama, you are blushing! And Raven paid dearly for that kiss, for he lost his golden sword.”

“True, but it was better than ’is life.”

“It was
Papa’s
life that was threatened.”

“So! Eet is long ago, now.”

“Yes. Mama?”

“Daisy is his granddaughter.”

“The Raven’s?”

“The very same.”

There was a long silence. Armand swallowed and felt his chest tighten in sudden concern. Surely his mama would not object . . . ?

A tinkle of infectious laughter lightened the tension. “So! Eet comes a full circle. Your father shall see the ’umor.”

“I hope so, Mama, I hope so. Tonight I shall ride off into the sunset with my bride, and you shall see how well I have chosen.”

“You shall ride with your back to the sun,
cheri.
You are traveling
east
to Westenbury.”

“Mama!” Armand sounded genuinely shocked. “How
can
you be so prosaic! I have a good mind not to include you in this escapade at all.”

At which, the incorrigible Countess Westenbury rolled her eyes in the most uncountesslike of fashions, and called for her smelling salts.

 

 

“Lord Rochester. What a singular surprise! I knew your mother. Chirpy little thing. Might have married her myself, but for a silly scandal and a temptingly pretty widgeon called . . . good grief, I forget her name, but she is the Countess of Westenbury now.”

Lord Rochester had heard of the scandal, but he was too polite to refer to it. Instead, he withdrew a pinch of excellent snuff and offered the same to Lord Raven.

“No, by God, won’t touch the stuff unless I have mixed it myself. Now where was I? Oh, your dear mama. I trust she is still a beauty, though time must have wrought some damage. Even
I
am not as handsome as I once was.” He gave a bark of sudden laughter. “Your father cut me out neatly, I fear, though I blame it entirely on his tailor. If he hadn’t been wearing one of those
dashed
military style coats by Scott . . .” The earl sighed. “Your mother had eyes for no one else after that.”

Gareth refrained from mentioning how relieved he was that this was the case. Instead, he inclined his eyebrows, murmuring a polite “Really? I do not believe she ever mentioned the circumstance of your being acquainted.”

Raven gave a bark of slightly bitter laughter. “No, I don’t suppose she has. Probably took me for some doting old fool. I was much older than she was, you understand.”

Gareth thought he did, so his nod was perfunctory, for he did not wish to appear pitying.

The old man grunted. “Madeira?”

“Thanks.” Civilities accorded, his lordship took a seat by the window and inspected his elegantly manicured hands. Despite his credentials, he was suddenly strangely unsure of himself. Certainly, it was hard to begin, especially if Raven had already accorded the honor he was about to ask for to that trumped-up sprig Barrymore.

The earl regarded him closely. If there was a slight, mischievous smile behind his eagle eyes, Lord Rochester was too overset to notice it.

“I suspect you know why I am here.”

“No, I am intrigued. Doubtless you shall tell me.”

“I have come to offer for Miss Chartley. If she agrees to do me the honor of becoming my wife, I shall own myself the happiest of men.”

Lord Raven regarded him with sudden animation. Ha, if that wasn’t one for the pot! He had rather hoped for Barrymore, but had not raised his thoughts so high as a marquis. He schooled his hands to be still, for they were itching to rub together with glee. Instead, he rather mildly—for one of his temperament—inquired
which
Miss Chartley Lord Rochester referred to, for he assumed he must have some kind of preference in this matter.

“Oh!” Lord Rochester stared at him in some surprise. “Miss
Primrose
Chartley, of course.”

“No ‘of course’ about it, my boy. I have had suitors begging for all three on at least two occasions. One, how ever, had the unmitigated gall to tabulate which he desired in order of perceived merit.”

“But that is frightful!”

“Precisely.” Lord Raven watched the younger man in amusement. Secretly, he was as pleased as the punch Richmond brewed at his specification. He had caught Primmy—ever his favorite-a catch beyond even
his
hopes. But the bait, the bait! Surely Lord Rochester’s coffers were not so far depleted that they needed restoring from the ransom? But why else would he offer for Primrose? He hardly knew her! He decided to prod, a little. It was all part of his fun, after all.

“The happiest of men, eh? Doubtless you will be happier still if Primrose’s name was picked from out my tricorne.”