The Companion (37 page)

The Countess raised a single brow. “I am charmed to meet you.” She looked quizzically to Rufford.

It was Beth who found a need to explain. “I hope to be useful to his . . . quest, Lady Lente. I can read the ancient texts and—”

Rufford interrupted. “We leave on Saturday. I trust that is sufficiently urgent?”

“It is.” The woman looked at Beth curiously. “I hope you know what you are doing.”

Beth gathered herself. “I do.” But it sounded frail even in her own ears.

The Countess sailed away, saying only, “We will talk, Rufford.” In her wake, Beth could clearly hear the surrounding chatter.

“Whatever could he see in her? Such a brown girl.”

“And that dress! Dreadful.”

“Well, I know what he might see in her. One does in those kinds of girls.”

“Her manners are so free—”

“All those foreign climes. You know what the Equator does to one.”

“All well and good, but why
marry
her?”

“A few hundred pounds a year could keep one like that.”

Beth stiffened. So did Rufford. He had heard as well. Beth was mortified.

“Refreshment is in order, no matter what you think,” he said sternly, and guided her over to the table with a champagne fountain. Of course the Countess of Lente would provide the latest fashion in refreshment. “Punch or champagne? Never mind. Champagne.” He took the crystal dipper and filled a glass. “Drink this.”

She took a sip.

“Miss Rochewell?”

She turned to see a man nearing sixty, dressed not only in a bottle green coat but one that actually sported skirts. “Yes?” Was her reputation so free that anyone could accost her?

“I am Bernard Chively.” Beth’s stomach sank. “Your aunt arranged for you to care for my own dear aunt. You can take the Mail Coach on Friday. The place is in quite a state, of course. We haven’t had a housekeeper for months. Now, you won’t mind my aunt’s crotchets, will you?” Here he pinched her cheek. “We pay extra just to compensate.”

Beth found herself trembling. “Mr. . . . Mr. Chively. I—”

“Miss Rochewell will not be going to wherever it is your aunt resides,” Mr. Rufford said decisively. “We start our
wedding trip on Saturday.” Mr. Chively’s mouth dropped. “I am afraid you must find another victim for your aunt’s ill will. You will excuse us.” He took Beth by both elbows from behind and guided her away. Just as well, since she felt somewhat unsteady.

“Drink your champagne,” Rufford ordered roughly.

Beth was so embarrassed she could not speak. He must be so chagrined to find that he had offered for one who was on the brink of hiring herself out as a housekeeper and companion. How could he ever respect her? How could he . . . ? No, she would not think of that. She sipped the champagne, her eyes averted. She began to breathe again.

“More. Drink the whole glass.”

She did.

“Your father spent your portion?”

“On his last expedition.”

“Your aunt would not . . . ?”

“I refused two offers. She was at her wits’ end. I couldn’t hang on her. I could find no position, no recommendation, without her help. Finally I asked, and she did help me.”

“I see.”

“I am sorry to embarrass you. Perhaps he will not tell anyone.”

“We will be long gone in any case.”

He took her empty glass and set it on a passing servant’s tray. “Dance with me.” She looked up at him. The blue eyes were serious, the bowed lips sensuous. Then a glint of humor twinkled in the eyes. “Make them stare,” he commanded.

Her smile was tenuous. He turned her. It was a waltz. She had not noticed. Again she felt his hand on her waist. Again she placed her palm in his, feeling the warmth of his skin in places down somewhere unfamiliar. Her hand on his black coat sensed the muscled shoulder beneath. She had touched that naked flesh once. She heaved a breath as the music swept them away.

The room whirled around her. She could see the bent heads whispering. Miss Belchersand and Miss Campton were looking daggers. Her aunt buzzed from group to group.
Mr. Chively was descending upon her aunt, grievance writ loud on his features. She did not care. She wanted to remain here, just so, with Mr. Rufford’s arms around her, swirling on the music. She let her head fall back as she spun, giddy, and let him guide the dance. The chandeliers above twinkled like the bubbles in champagne.

The music stopped. Mr. Rufford bowed. “You have fulfilled your social obligation. Let us go.” He took her hand and led her toward her aunt. Before they could reach their destination, however, Rufford caught sight of Major Ware and bore down upon him. “Ware, just the man I wanted to see,” Rufford said.

Ware looked startled at his vehemence. “What? What is afoot?”

“I am going abroad on a mission of which you would approve. I will not be accosted by your confidants at Whitehall, however. You’ll keep them at bay until Saturday?”

“I . . . I shall certainly try.”

“You are a diplomat, Ware. I count on you. We have booked a packet. But if you could arrange a cutter, we could reach our destination faster. As you know, time is of the essence.”

Ware cleared his throat. “Do you have a chance of succeeding?”

Ian glanced down for a moment, then met the Major’s eyes. “A chance.” He almost turned to go. “And Ware . . . one more favor I might beg?”

Ware nodded, his eyes still wide. “Whatever you wish.”

Rufford looked stern. “St. James’s Church at five Thursday. I have need of a best man.”

Ware looked in astonishment from Rufford to Beth. “Congratulations, old man!” he sputtered, shaking Rufford’s hand. Then his face went gray and he looked back to Beth.

Beth wanted so to reassure him. “You should be congratulating me, Major Ware, in spite of convention. Am I not blessed with a most extraordinary fiancé? Be assured, I think so.”

“Do you?” Ware examined her.

“Yes, and you may have known him longer, but I know more of his secrets than you do.”

Ware practically stepped back a pace.

“Can you bring yourself to serve us?” Rufford asked, his voice harsh.

Ware looked from one to the other and said, “Yes. I think I can.”

Rufford nodded brusquely and drew Beth into an alcove.

“There is much to do,” he said. “Do you have someone to stand up with you?”

“My aunt . . . though she is promised to a funeral in Bath for some cousin of her husband. I am not sure she will forgo it since the ceremony is to be so private—”

“Not your aunt. Let her go to her funeral.” It was as if he pronounced a verdict.

“Well . . .” Beth hesitated. “I might ask Miss Fairfield.”

“Yes. She will do. Send word if you come to a stand. I am at Albany House, number five.” He paused. “I will be quite engaged tomorrow. But I shall meet you and Miss Fairfield at the church Thursday.” Something struck him. “Will St. James’s do? Or would you prefer to choose another?”

He would never be able to get the Reverend at St. James’s to marry them on a moment’s notice. It was the most stylish church in London. All the
ton
displayed their acquaintance and their tailor’s or their dressmaker’s finest work there each week. She raised her brows. “Whatever you think.” That would give him an out when he couldn’t arrange for St. James’s.

“All will be in order; do not fear.”

“I do not fear you,” she said simply.

He leaned forward and took her hands. “You will never have cause. Now let us get you home.” He led her protectively out toward her aunt.

“Lady Rangle,” he announced, “your niece has the headache. You will take her home.” His tone brooked no contradiction, but Beth saw her aunt’s expression turn mulish. Lady Rangle turned to Lady Jersey to find an ally for her
complaint. “You will take her home or I shall.” Rufford’s voice was all soft threat.

The very thought of such a scandal left Lady Rangle outraged.

“Oh, go, Cecilia. Let the young people have their way.” Lady Jersey laughed and pushed her aunt toward the door. “It is exhausting to be affianced.”

Before she knew it, the carriage had been called. Rufford handed her into the darkness. A touch of his hand, no more, a salute, and the carriage clattered away.

Once inside, snug in her pelisse, the lap rug securely tucked about her, Beth sighed and collapsed into the upholstery. The emotional drain of her private uncertainty that Rufford even wanted to marry her, and the public’s certainty that she was not worthy of him, were almost more than she could bear. She stared out the window at the passing streets. It had rained, and now a damp fog settled over the city.

It was not far to Curzon Street. Beth entered her aunt’s house feeling that the entire evening had been unreal, dream and nightmare in one.

Seventeen

The next day was a blur for Beth. She slept hardly at all. She alternately resolved to write a note to Rufford crying off and fluttered with hope that she could bring him ultimately to care for her. And then there was the fact of his nature, the terrible mission he was bent on, the danger to him, to her for that matter, in finding Kivala and what might wait there, the fearful conflict with Asharti he was resolved on—at times she felt faint.

She wrote to Miss Fairfield in a much revised missive asking for her help, fully expecting a civil snub. But Miss Fairfield’s reply was enthusiastic. In the morning, Beth packed her few things in a small trunk. In the afternoon, she steadied herself by going over the scrolls again and consulting her book on navigational mathematics to calculate the seasonal differences that would reposition the moon from the time the scrolls mentioned to the time they were likely to arrive in the area east of Casablanca. They would need good sextants and chronometers. Portsmouth was the place to acquire those, a town full of sailors. She made a list of supplies for the projected caravan and a list of tasks and arrangements to be made when they reached Casablanca. She was
good at this. She could be useful to him. He might come to depend upon her.

It should not have surprised her that Lady Rangle made no protest that it would be Miss Fairfield who supported Beth. A ceremony not seen by more than four people could not compete with a chance at Rangle’s cousin’s jewelry. She accepted with complaisance that Beth would be gone by the time she returned. Beth had never felt more estranged from her only living relative or from England. The prospect of getting back to Africa grew more and more enticing.

Living with or apart from a vampire who never grew old was a thing so beyond her experience, it would not profit her sanity to speculate on it. She was having trouble thinking beyond her wedding night. All possibilities there seemed horrid. Would he? Would it be like Gibraltar? What if he did not? What if he sucked at her neck and she never wanted it to stop?

Her aunt was engaged to dinner with Lady Wolverton, but Beth begged off. She could not endure another scene like last night’s gauntlet of disparagement. So it was a lonely evening home with her thoughts and an early bed, if not early sleep, for Beth.

Ian had no leisure at all. His first call was to a dressmaker of the first water in Piccadilly, slipping from his curtained carriage into the shop of Madame d’Arette. She recognized his name from some of the bills she had presented to him in former times for his companions. His reputation for having made his fortune induced her to put off her other clients. There ensued a somewhat exhausting round for Ian of choosing fabrics, explaining what he wanted, and estimating sizes. Madame could be heard screeching at her seamstresses as he put on his blue glasses, pulled up his cloak collar around his cheeks, left the shop, and strode the three steps to where his carriage waited. Thank God it was a dim, grim day in London.

Next was a milliner’s shop, whose mistress was shown
scraps of the fabrics and who promised to take care of everything, then a shop that sold things he had too much knowledge of for the comfort of the shopgirl. The avaricious old jeweler rubbed his hands in delight as Ian left his shop pocketing several small boxes. He engaged a post chaise and four to Portsmouth for Friday evening, being sure it would arrive before Saturday’s early-morning tide. That would allow them to spend the day together. If she wanted to spend the day with him. He ordered a lap rug and hot bricks for her on the journey. Finally, he spent most of the afternoon in the dim confines of Mr. Edgely’s office, making sure she would be taken care of no matter what happened to him.

Then he went to Beatrix.

“What brings you out in the stark afternoon?” she said, disapproving, her wrapper revealing almost everything in its dramatic décolleté. “It must be an hour to sunset.”

“Don’t be supercilious with me,” he ordered in the face of that one raised brow. “You will get what you want, you and Ware both. But I need the help of Miss Rochewell.”

“How can she help you? She will be only a liability.”

“I don’t care to tell you. Suffice it that she is indispensable. And my debt will be paid with my name and my support for her natural life.”

“You needn’t marry the chit!” Beatrix’s keen glance darted over his face even as she put on a pout. He knew that pout was meant to distract him from her eyes, which wanted answers.

“Should she not get something out of the bargain?” he asked.

“Why will she do this? She did not seem the avaricious type.” Beatrix lounged back into the sofa in her boudoir, her auburn hair in delightful disarray.

“No, she is not.” He frowned. “She wants to return to Africa.”

“That cannot be enough to marry one like you. There must be something more at work.” Beatrix observed him narrowly. She was not to be denied.

“Perhaps,” he said shortly.

Beatrix waited.

“She . . . she may think me a better man than I am.” It was as much as he could say.

Beatrix cocked her head. She smiled a very tiny smile. “Everyone should have someone who thinks they are better than they are, Rufford. In that case, I support your decision. What do you want of me? You do want something.”

“Yes,” Rufford said, wary. He handed her a paper with a very long list of names on it.

After a second sleepless night, Beth saw Lady Rangle off to Bath at the crack of one in the afternoon. The house seemed big and empty. She sat on her bed, thinking that it was less than three hours until she should have to call a hackney carriage, since one could not really walk to one’s own wedding. She harbored some secret fear that no one would be there when she arrived, that it was all some horrible mistake, that she wasn’t to go to back to Africa or marry a man who had wormed his way into her every thought.