Sheri Cobb South (18 page)

“By Jove, I like a man who’s not afraid to call a spade a spade!” exclaimed the Prince. “He’ll do. Lady Helen, stap me if he won’t!  Tell me, Mr. Brundy, what do you think of my Pavilion?”

Mr. Brundy was not afraid to call a spade a spade, but nor was he a fool.  “I’ve never seen anything to equal it, your ‘ighness,” he said with perfect truth.

“Have you seen the Saloon yet?”

For an answer, Mr. Brundy was obliged to consult his wife, who shook her head indicating the negative. “It ‘as so many rooms, I can’t keep them all straight,” he explained.

As the Prince Regent liked his residences on the grand scale, this response could not fail to please. “The Saloon is all done in crimson and gilt, and the chintz hangings were imported from China,” he boasted, unmindful that this last piece of information would hardly be welcome news to the owner of an English textile mill. “You must see it before you leave. And who pray, is this young lady?”

He turned toward a wide-eyed Polly, who had been casting furtive glances at the wide doors through which she was shortly to make her escape.

“This is our guest, Miss Crump,” said Lady Helen, gently nudging Polly forward.

“Deuced handsome girl, isn’t she, Clarence?” pronounced the Prince, turning to his brother for confirmation.

“Indeed she is,” agreed the Royal Duke, bowing over Polly’s hand. “Damme if she don’t remind me of someone.”

They slowly progressed down the ranks, leaving in their wake an elated Lady Helen. Her husband’s demeanor had been all she might have wished, deferential but not toadying (not, to be sure, that the Prince Regent had ever displayed any aversion to being toad-eaten), and appreciative of the Prince’s notice without the least hint of grovelling. Perfection itself, in fact. Let the
ton
snub him now, after the Prince Regent had singled him out! As soon as the royal procession was through and the rigid lines collapsed into less formal groupings, Lady Helen grabbed her husband’s arm and pulled him toward the door.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To see the Saloon, by royal command,” replied Lady Helen.

Once in the corridor, however, she steered him into the nearest available chamber and, after closing the door behind them, flung her arms about his neck and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

“What’s that for?” asked Mr. Brundy, when he could breathe again.

“Only that I adore you, Ethan Brundy, and I’m sorry I ever doubted you!”

“In that case, feel free to doubt me any time you like,” he replied, and returned her kiss with feeling.

They might have lingered there indefinitely had the door not eventually opened furtively to reveal another couple (this one also married, albeit not to each other) hoping to use the room for the same purpose. Ironically, it was the weaver and his wife who gave a guilty start, while the illicit lovers merely shrugged and went in search of a less populated trysting place.

“We should go back,” Lady Helen said, reluctantly stepping out of the circle of her husband’s arms. “There is to be a singer in the Music Room, and it would look very odd if we did not put in an appearance.”

“All right, love, if you—good God!” Catching sight of one of the many gilt-framed paintings adorning the walls, Mr. Brundy stepped closer to inspect it more thoroughly, ‘“oo are they, ‘elen?”

Lady Helen joined him in studying the portrait. No less than thirteen children, ranging in age from infancy to young adulthood, had been committed to canvas by the late Mr. Hoppner. They were richly dressed in the fashions of the previous century, their light blue eyes good-humored, their unpowdered hair incorporating every hue from light red-gold to dark auburn.

“They are the King’s children,” she told her husband. “The oldest is, of course, the Prince Regent, and there is the Duke of Clarence, whom you met tonight. One would never think it to see them now, but the king’s sons were all remarkably handsome before they grew so fat, don’t you think?”

‘“elen, don’t you see?” asked Mr. Brundy, turning to regard his wife with incredulous brown eyes. “It’s Miss Crump! She’s a bloomin’ ‘anover!”

A closer inspection of the canvas led Lady Helen to believe that her husband was right, but other than resolving to ask Lady Tabor for anything she might recollect about the youthful loves of Farmer George’s sons, there was very little they could do with the information until they returned home. As calmly as possible, Lady Helen took her husband’s arm and allowed him to escort her to the Music Room, where a soprano was to entertain the guests with a selection of songs in Italian. As Mr. Brundy spoke not a word of any language save his native tongue (and there were those who would question his proficiency even in that), very little time elapsed before he was heartily bored with the proceedings and wished nothing more than to return to his hired house on the Marine Parade, where he might have the pleasure of informing Sir Aubrey Tabor that he lacked the bloodlines to aspire to marriage with Miss Crump.

The soprano, La Dulcianni, was chagrined to discover that one of her audience—a young and rather attractive male one, at that—was not attending her performance at all, but rather scanning the assemblage with restless eyes. Worse, she was quite certain at one point that he had raised one white-gloved hand to conceal a yawn. But far from being offended, La Dulcianni (who had begun life as Annie Lockett of Liverpool, before her formidable talent had found a patron) recognized in Mr. Brundy a kindred spirit. After a whispered exchange with her accompanist, she temporarily abandoned her Italian repertoire to sing instead a well-known English folk song.

“I care not what the old folks say, I’ll take no heed or warning,” she sang, with a conspiratorial smile at her fellow Lancashire countryman, “For I’ll be wearing a wedding ring at Gretna in the morning.”

The thunderous applause which greeted the conclusion of this ditty suggested that Mr. Brundy was not the only one who appreciated her abrupt change of program. Alas, though she had endeared herself to her audience, she had lost the attention of her primary audience. For as she rendered the final bars, a footman delivered a sealed missive to Lady Helen. After reading this epistle, she grew quite pale, so much so that Mr. Brundy, who had not forgotten his wife’s recent fainting spell, became seriously alarmed.

‘“elen, love, are you all right?” he murmured under cover of the music.

“It’s Polly,” she whispered, clutching his sleeve. “Ethan, she’s eloped!”

Chapter 15

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet 129

“Eloped?” Mr. Brundy snatched the note from his wife’s nerveless fingers and scanned the single folded sheet.

Dear Lady Helen
,
read this missive,
by the time you read this, I shall be on my way to the Border with Lord Sutcliffe. I blush with shame when I consider that your generosity is to be rewarded so shabbily.   Pray believe that only the direst of circumstances could have induced me to follow so contemptible a course of action. I only hope that, as Lady Sutcliffe, I will be in a position to repay at least a few of your many kindnesses. Give my warmest regards to your husband and Lady Tabor.
It was signed only “Polly,” with no surname.

Mr. Brundy folded the note and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his coat. “Come on, ‘elen, let’s get out of ‘ere,” he said, grabbing his wife’s hand.

Anxious for Polly’s sake to squelch any hint of scandal, Lady Helen submitted without protest as her husband all but dragged her from the Music Room. In the corridor, however, her tongue was loosed.

“Oh, this is all my fault! If we hadn’t been—that is, if I had been chaperoning her as I ought, she never would have been able to slip away!”

“Don’t count on it, love. She’s a resourceful young lady, our Miss Crump—as I’ve reason to know.”

“Ethan, what are we going to do?”

“Go ‘ome and fetch Aubrey.”

“But what about Lady Tabor?”

“You can ‘ave a message delivered to ‘er while I send for the carriage.”

This suggestion found immediate favor, and Lady Helen gave the necessary instructions to a footman while her husband ordered the carriage brought round. No sooner had Mr. Brundy handed her into this equipage than he was accosted by an indignant Lady Tabor.

“Well, Mr. Brundy, I hope you are satisfied,” she grumbled. “As if it weren’t enough, your monopolizing the Regent in that encroaching fashion—”

She got no further before she was unceremoniously bundled into the carriage. Barking orders to the coachman, Mr. Brundy climbed aboard right behind Lady Tabor, and the carriage leaped into motion.

“Mr. Brundy!” cried Lady Tabor, grasping the leather strap to avoid being bounced all over the seat.  “What, pray, is the meaning of this?”

“Miss Crump is gone,” he said curtly. “I promise you’ll ‘ear it all, but not now.”

The short drive to the house on the Marine Parade was accomplished in record time, and Mr. Brundy did not even wait for the carriage to come to a complete stop before wrenching the door open and leaping out. Leaving the coachman to assist the ladies, he hurried into the house, bellowing at the top of his voice for Sir Aubrey.

That gentleman, having washed and changed out of his travel-stained clothes, was feeling much refreshed and so impatient to declare himself to his Polly that he had begun to regret his decision not to follow her to the Royal Pavilion. He had spent the better part of the evening in Mr. Brundy’s study, preparing his speech and fortifying himself for its delivery with his host’s best brandy. Upon hearing the commotion which heralded the party’s return, he abandoned the study in order to seek a
tête-à-tête
with his chosen bride.

“Well, Ethan, that was prompt,” he remarked as a breathless Mr. Brundy burst into the room. “Did you prevail upon Lady Helen to suffer another fainting spell? I thank you!”

“You’d best ‘old your thanks, Aubrey,” advised Mr. Brundy. “Polly’s gone. She’s ‘eaded for the Border with Sutcliffe.”

Sir Aubrey’s good-humored smile faded, leaving his handsome countenance oddly green about the gills. “No!”

Mr. Brundy produced the note from his coat pocket, ‘“ere, read it yourself.”

Sir Aubrey hastily scanned the missive. In spite of the urgency of the moment, he took note of the fact that, although Polly gave her regards to his mother and Mr. Brundy, there was no mention of his own name. Alas, he had not the leisure to consider the implications of this curious omission.

“How long?”

Mr. Brundy did not have to ask what he meant. “The note was delivered to ‘elen at midnight.”

Sir Aubrey’s lip curled in sardonic amusement at this display of melodrama on the part of his beloved. “By which time Polly was already long gone, I’ll wager. I’m going to bring her back, Ethan. Are you with me?”

“Aye, if you wish, but you’ll travel faster alone,” Mr. Brundy pointed out.

“No, we can travel through the night if need be, taking turns driving,” said Sir Aubrey, who had already reached the door and was barking orders to the coachman to have his phaeton put to at once.

While these instructions were being carried out, both men hurried up the stairs to their respective chambers. When they descended a few minutes later, Mr. Brundy had exchanged his formal attire for clothing more suitable for travelling. Sir Aubrey had donned a caped driving coat, and carried under his arm a case containing a set of duelling pistols. As the phaeton was by this time waiting before the door, Sir Aubrey was impatient to leave at once. Mr. Brundy followed him as far as the front door, then lingered to kiss his wife goodbye—a process which threatened to prove so protracted that Sir Aubrey was at last compelled to seize his friend by the collar and wrest him bodily from his bride’s arms.

“Mama,” Sir Aubrey tossed over his shoulder to where an uncharacteristically speechless Lady Tabor had collapsed onto the sofa, having by this time been brought up to date by Lady Helen, “if I have not returned with Miss Crump by morning, I want you to have the marquess escort you to Inglewood. I shall join you there shortly, bringing with me either my wife—or Sutcliffe’s widow!”

* * * *

With every mile that passed beneath his horses’ hooves, Lord Sutcliffe grew more and more convinced that he had made a dreadful mistake. To be sure, Miss Crump was beautiful and he was desperately in love with her, but his ardor cooled considerably every time he thought of his father. Putting his head out the window of the closed carriage, he could almost see the marquess hot on his trail, fire issuing from his nostrils and promises of vengeance pouring from his lips.

“Do get your head back inside and close the window!” beseeched his love rather more tartly than became a runaway bride.

“I was just looking to see if we were being pursued,” said Lord Sutcliffe defensively.

“Well, if we are, all the more reason for keeping your head in the carriage!” retorted Polly with inarguable logic. “What time is it?”

Lord Sutcliffe withdrew his pocket watch and held it to the window, allowing the light from the full moon to illuminate its face. “Twenty minutes past two o’clock.”

“Lady Helen will have long since had my note, then,” she remarked, more to herself than to her affianced husband.

“Note?” echoed the viscount in alarm. “You left a
note?”

“I instructed a footman to deliver the note at twelve o’clock—two hours after we left. Depend upon it, if anyone is following us, they are far behind.  After all, I could hardly disappear into the night without a by-your-leave,” she pointed out, trying not to remember that she had once promised Sir Aubrey to do precisely that—whereupon he had threatened to come after her and thrash her soundly, as she recalled. Instead, it had been he who had disappeared without a word of farewell.

Unlike Sutcliffe, Polly had no fear of being pursued; who, she reasoned, would want her? She was neither fish nor fowl, neither genteel enough (as Sir Aubrey had been kind enough to point out) to make a Society marriage, nor quite common enough, thanks to her brief taste of fashionable life, to return to her previous existence. For even if she were fortunate enough to procure another position, how could she face her noble clients in such a servile capacity after rubbing shoulders with them at the Royal Pavilion? There remained in between only the shadowy world of the
demi-monde,
and when she had discovered Mrs. Jennings in Brighton, it had appeared that ruin of one kind or another was to be her inevitable fate. Only Lord Sutcliffe’s providential proposal of marriage had offered her an escape route, and for that, she reminded herself firmly, she owed him her lifelong gratitude, even if she could not give him her love. That, it seemed, was no longer hers to give, for it had long since belonged to the only bachelor in Brighton who did not want it.