Wedding Night Revenge (17 page)

Sam Smith loped coltishly along, a tuneless noise whistling out through his touching front teeth. He flicked idle glances at numbers on gateposts, checking them against the bold black scripted direction on the letter he was bearing. The house he was passing had a fancy iron gate with the number sixty-two scrolled on to it in gilt. Number thirty-four was some way yet along this terrace of fine double-fronted villas that comprised Beaulieu Gardens.

His attention was suddenly caught by a familiar face beneath a peaked cap, and he raised a hand to one of his acquaintances who ran errands for one of his master's acquaintances. The page, dressed in maroon uniform, was just entering a grassy oasis enclosed within railings in the middle of the road, to walk his mistress's little Pomeranian dog. Sam eyed the dainty canine on the end of the lead with contemptuous distaste as it skittered over the cobbles. In Sam's opinion, if someone wanted a pet dog, they should have a dog, not a rat. That magnificent Irish wolfhound he'd seen in a picture, hanging in the master's study, now that was a dog. He just wished he could see the beast in the flesh, but it was kept at the master's Irish estate. He'd like more than anything to go there. But he must bide his time, show willing and God willing, the Earl might keep him and Annie on. Then they might soon get to travel with him to Wolverton Manor across the sea. That would keep Annie good and safe from that trading justice and they could start afresh. A new life for them both, that's what Sam wanted. What would they miss? No ma and pa to care for. Both were dead. No sweethearts to hanker after that bound them with invisible cord to their past. All they had was each other...and the Earl of Devane.

When he thought to again check house numbers, he was stopped in his tracks. A rounded female derriere was rocking provocatively in front of him, physically preventing him from carrying out his duty. He leaned a hand against the spear-tipped green railings, a low- lidded look maturing his boyish features as he watched the woman undulate while scrubbing methodical circles on the top step of number thirty-four.

A few more seconds' furious elbow grease to a particularly stubborn spot, and Noreen Shaughnessy sat back on her heels and cuffed her wiry red hair from her eyes. With a puff of exertion, she rested back down on all fours, brush in hand, ready to finish the chore. She hesitated, leaning on the bristles, with her hackles rising. Her humming tailed off and her perspiring face whipped around to peer over her shoulder.

The sight that greeted her made her skin as rubicund as her hair. Despite her embarrassment, oddly what registered immediately in her mind was that blushing hid her freckles.

'Don't yer go rushin' on my account, now,' Sam told her with a certain male insinuation softening his east- »

end vowels. 'You get it right nice 'n' clean now. I don't mind standing here a while longer and just watching you...'

Noreen scrambled to her feet in a flurry of cap streamers and starched pinafore. The scrubbing brush was pitched with some force back into the pail, splashing the smooth slab. 'Now what might you be meaning by that, you cheeky beggar?' she stormed. 'And look what you've gone and made me do.' With her elbows akimbo, a pugnacious glare was levelled at him, then at her spruce step, awash with dirty water. It was a long time since Noreen had been subjected to this sort of masculine, raillery. Her no-nonsense attitude and tendency to lash out with tongue and fists at those as wouldn't take no for an answer, had long since beaten off any amatory interest from the available men at Windrush. She had Mary to consider and none of the coves as tried to insinuate themselves into her affections cared two hoots for her ungainly sister's welfare. And she came with Mary...or she didn't come at all.

Now she was annoyed at herself for letting this brash whippersnapper creep up on her and unexpectedly tip her off balance.

She descended a step, sent him a menacing look; undaunted, he grinned wolfishly back. Flustered by his confidence, Noreen considered bounding down the remaining steps to teach his cocky self some respect for his elders.

For she was sure she was some years his senior, despite that she was feeling, oddly, like a green girl. She retreated to stand her ground and snapped out,

'Faith, is it a fool you are?' She whipped off her cap and smacked it into shape, then agitatedly shook out her rumpled skirts.

Noreen slid the stripling a sideways look and guessed he was a servant from a grand house: his smart blue and black livery was of fine cut and cloth. 'Will you be after telling me what you want, then? Apart from your ears boxed, that is...'

'Well, I don't know as I should say...bein' as it's this early in the day, like.

You might reckon as I was uncouth.'

Noreen choked and burned; he
was
trying to get up her petticoats.

Sam smiled at her confusion. 'Sorry about the step. Looks like you'll be down there again. Now, if I weren't so busy, I'd give you a hand...perhaps more 'n that...'

'Get away with you! It's none of your sympathy I'm needing—'

'Who is it, Noreen?'

Sam glanced past the plump maid—who seemed on the point of forcing her hot head through her cap, so brutally was she ramming it on to her wiry hair—to see a slender woman framed in the doorway.

Sam recognised her at once. When Joseph Walsh had given him the letter with instructions for immediate delivery, he'd imagined it might be her it was intended for. She was paler, looking a little care-worn since last he'd seen her, but no less beautiful for that. In fact, she looked a fragile goddess, with her proud, solemn features and her golden hair loose on her shoulders, and those enormous eyes the colour of tiny bird eggs. Sam thought she looked the sort of woman you'd need to handle with kid gloves, lest she broke. Or you did. With sudden perceptiveness Sam mused on his master's recent odd moods. That made a subtle smile touch his mouth. Whatever was wrong between them would come right, for never was there a better gentleman inall the world. Path of true love and so on, meandered through Sam's fertile mind as he glanced obliquely at the servant. He climbed two steps and handed her the note to give to her mistress.

He registered that the name of the lady who was plucking at the master's heartstrings was Miss Rachel Meredith. After making her a grave and respectful bow, he was within a trice bowling back along the street. He started to cross the road, hoping to catch up with his friend for a chat as he emerged from the park with the runt of a mutt. Idly he slanted a look back over his shoulder at Miss Rachel Meredith's house and saw the Irish woman staring after him. Cheekily he spun about and nimbly genuflected, before walking on, chuckling.

Noreen, horrified that she'd let him catch her watching him, dropped quickly to her knees, snatched up the scrubbing brush and put it to frantic use.

Rachel frowned at Noreen's florid countenance and then looked at the errand boy idling with a differently liveried page on the opposite side of the street. 'I don't know why, but I thought he seemed familiar,' she remarked, almost to herself.

'He were familiar...too familiar...' Noreen muttered darkly and kept on scouring.

Rachel turned about in the hallway, wondering where she might before have seen the lad. Idly she looked at the letter, wondering if it might be a social invitation. She'd been in town now several days and people were becoming aware of her presence. She and Lucinda had already shared a carriage ride to Hyde Park with little Alan and a trip to the animal menagerie to show him the beasts. This afternoon they were hoping to go to Madame Tussaud's, then, when Alan went home for his tea, on to the fabric warehouses in Pall Mall, for Lucinda, moaning she was fat, was keen to cheer herself by buying a pretty enveloping shawl.

The seal on the parchment caught her attention. Her heartbeat tripped as she moved the letter closer to confirm it was that of the Earl of Devane. Quickly she turned the note over and recognised the firm sloping script on the other side. She repressed the spontaneous urge to spin about and hurl it viciously into Noreen's bucket of slops by reminding herself that this might at last be the dispensation he had promised she might carry home to Hertfordshire.

Immediately she repaired to the morning room to find out if it was.

It wasn't. But it was a social invitation; albeit one that seemed extended with a careless hand. Rachel let the paper drop from her fingers. After taking an agitated turn about the room she picked it up and reread the concise sentences whilst her small white teeth sank grooves into her lower lip.

—I know you want to leave London as soon as possible. So do I. I intend to remove to Ireland at the earliest opportunity. I have preparations underway for a social evening at Berkeley Square this weekend, by way of farewell to my acquaintances, friends and family. If you are still desirous of negotiating a certain business matter before I go, it is convenient for me that I give you an audience then. I have no other free time. I have sent an invitation to your friends, the Saunders. If you decide to attend, I realise it would be best you come suitably accompanied.

Yours, Devane

Rachel chewed faster at her lip. There was no dispensation. He'd been lying all along. But then she'd already guessed as much when the days passed and no document arrived for her to take home. Devane had not made a prior arrangement with her father forfeiting his right to the estate until after the wedding. Had there been such an agreement, her papa would not have kept such monumental news to himself. He would have shared it with them all to soften the blow and ease their shock and distress.

Was her hundred pounds suddenly tempting him? She doubted it. This cavalier invitation—as offhand and take it or leave it as had been his demand for one thousand pounds rent—was simply to impress on her that he now

.held the upper hand. He could not spare her a moment of his precious time before the event, but he might find a few minutes to bestow on her at his soiree. He was manipulating her, making her dance to his tune, because once she had led him by the nose, dangled him on a string. He'd said, had he not, that by the time he'd finished with her they'd be even...

She crumpled the letter in a hand and let it drop to the table. A surge of aching anger quivered through her, making her feel light-headed. She couldn't again pester him at home over this matter, he knew that. Tempting fate twice and risking a scandal was out of the question with June's wedding imminent. She would comply with his wishes, of course, just as he knew she would. She was already grateful that he might still negotiate a price for a short lease on Windrush. She felt herself lucky that she might yet persuade him not to immediately sell her inheritance. A reprieve was what she needed; just a chance to put into action a scheme to get it back. If that was achieved by appearing humble and pandering to his despotic ego, so be it.

Before such calm philosophy was lost to pride, she went to the small bureau in the corner and found a pen and paper. With a deep breath she sat down, dashed off a polite sentence of thanks and acceptance, sanded and sealed it, all within a few minutes. Of course she would go, echoed in her mind as she went to find Ralph to deliver it. She'd ignore the humiliation she'd already endured at his hands and perhaps even apologise for the abuse she'd heaped on his head. For there was still a possibility that June could be married at Windrush and until that was gone, she would bend to his will...as he intended she should.

Rachel settled the small boy on her lap and helped him line up his tin soldiers on the table. When they were in passable formation, and before the prancing- horsed cavalry could be assembled, too, Alan knocked the redcoats down with a fat fist. He chuckled and turned a mischievous look on her.

'Oh, dear! How unfortunate! An entire infantry regiment has been wiped out,' Rachel said sorrowfully. 'And not a bullet fired or a battle fought! What

will
the Iron Duke say to that calamity? No medals for you, • my young man!'

The boy cackled and clambered from her lap. On sturdy three-year-old legs he scampered away to find something else in his toy box with which to beset her armchair.

'I'm sure Paul and I have only been invited as we're your friends. Paul thinks it's because of this new business arrangement he has with the Earl.'

'I'm sure it's Paul who is right,' Rachel lied kindly, not wanting Lucinda to know her own thoughts on the subject: that Devane had simply invited them to act as her chaperons.

'As soon as I got the card this morning I was dying to know whether you had an invitation, and whether you would accept.'

Rachel quickly sipped from her teacup before little Alan returned and knocked it flying from her fingers. She hoped no hint of irony was discernible in her voice as she added, 'Of course I shall attend. Despite what's gone on in the past between the Merediths and Devane, there's no hardship in being civil.'

No hardship!
reverberated like the beat of a drum in her brain. Sometimes she felt as though the effort of pretending she had no quarrel with the blackguard would be the finish of her sanity. Not least because she felt so alone now. She needed someone to confide in. She wanted to openly tell her friend that she hated the damnable man; not only because he had pilfered her estate, her inheritance, but because he was determined to shame and humiliate her, too. If not in public, then most definitely in private. She still burned with mortification from the hateful way he had treated her. Yet when she thought of it, the ache that assailed her sometimes crept from her throbbing head to make tender her breasts or stir her insides to a feverish heat...and then she loathed him even more.