Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (38 page)

“Don’t I know it, sir?” Penthorpe said with a sigh. “Went round there this morning, thinking I’d best get things in motion, and dashed if they didn’t tell me that since I’ve somehow managed to become officially dead, I can’t sell out. A dashed nuisance, that’s what it is.” An arrested look entered his eyes, and he added thoughtfully, “I say, what if the parson should refuse to call out the banns for a dead man?”

Jervaulx took a pinch of snuff. “There can be no trouble about that, dear boy. There are reasonable men in the present Government, you know, and a word has been dropped in a few helpful ears. Your next attempt will no doubt prove much less frustrating for you.”

Seeing that Penthorpe had not understood, Gideon said, “I believe he means he has cleared the way for you, Andy.” He eyed Jervaulx curiously, wondering why he had exerted himself. “Much obliged to you, sir. Your influence must be of help to him.”

Jervaulx nodded, restoring his snuffbox to his waistcoat pocket. Then, looking directly at Penthorpe, he said, “The sooner you take advantage of that more reasonable attitude, Andrew, the better it will be. Moreover, Gideon is supposed to remain in bed, and there is a great deal more for a busy man to attend to here before this day will be over, as you see.” He gestured toward the papers on the side table, then added gently, “Of course, if you prefer to put the matter off in your usual custom, you are quite welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

Penthorpe stammered his thanks, mixing apologies with assurances that as soon as he had seen Gideon safely up to his bedchamber he would go directly to the defense ministry, assuring the marquess that he had given up his habits of procrastination once and for all, and that Jervaulx need not concern himself further with his few trifling difficulties.

Jervaulx said in the same gentle tone, “One of the footmen will assist Gideon upstairs in a few moments, Andrew.”

Penthorpe hesitated, but at Gideon’s slight nod, he took himself off, and when the door had shut behind him, Gideon turned warily toward his father, bracing himself and ignoring the pounding in his head, but wishing the simple act of standing had not made him feel so dizzy.

Jervaulx frowned. “When was the last time you took one of Kingston’s powders?”

“Hours ago,” Gideon said, still watching him. “I’m all right, sir. In fact, I daresay I feel better than you do. You look worn to the bone.”

“Nonsense. Don’t try to change the subject.”

Gideon sighed. “I know I spoke out of turn, sir, but may I sit down for this lecture? I warn you, I’m a trifle too dizzy to maintain a parade posture for longer than a minute or two.”

“You are a trifle old for lectures, too. Moreover, there can be little cause for vexation, in that the sentiments you expressed—the last ones, at all events—were entirely appropriate. A dutiful son ought not to infuriate his father.”

Despite the reasonable nature of these words, Gideon did not feel that he had been given permission to sit. He said carefully, “If I cannot feel as you do about that feud, Father, it is because I have no understanding of it. To my mind the damned thing ought to be laid to rest once and for all.”

“That will, of course, be your right when you succeed to the title,” Jervaulx said. “One would think that a certain amount of family loyalty would prevail, but that is no more than a matter for conjecture at present, and until you are recovered from your injury, you will be much better off in your bed.”

Gideon, having little enough energy even to stand, let alone to debate the matter, said, “As you wish, sir,” and moved toward the door. When he reached it, he paused with his hand on the handle and, turning back, said, “What brought you back so early? Usually, you do not return from the House until after nine.”

Jervaulx’s frown deepened. “There will be no vote for days, and one begins to find the interminable dissension intolerable since it is perfectly plain to anyone with sense that the economy of this country depends upon keeping the price of corn high enough to ensure a profit for the farmers who grow it. Moreover, as you see—” He gestured once again toward the stack of papers.

“Does it not concern you to know, sir, that in Cornwall, miners cannot afford to feed their families because they cannot afford the price of a loaf of bread?”

“Certainly it does, but one votes for Gloucester not for Cornwall, and in point of fact, if the economy of the corn and wheat growing counties can be improved—as it should be now that there is peace—there will be a greater call for tin and other Cornish products, so the mines will open again and the economy of Cornwall will improve. Do not argue what you do not know, lad.”

“What I know, sir,” Gideon said doggedly, “is that there is great distress at home, caused I think, by this sudden return to peace after twenty years of war and by the return of great masses of men hitherto employed at sea and in the army. People cannot even travel in safety. Why, I have been fired upon twice.”

“Such unrest must be firmly put down.”

“I should think the problem would be better resolved if the distress of the people were alleviated,” Gideon said.

“You should perhaps join the Whigs,” Jervaulx said gently.

“And alienate you to the point of never speaking to me again? I think not, sir.” A particularly sharp pain shot through his head, and though he fought to keep it from showing in his countenance, he saw Jervaulx’s expression sharpen.

“Go to bed, Gideon. You are fitted neither physically nor mentally for this discussion. When you are on your feet again, perhaps you will find time amidst your many social engagements to learn more about such matters as these.”

Gideon smiled ruefully. “I confess, I do not know much about them, sir, but I do intend to return to Cornwall soon to continue my lessons. Before that date, however, I have been invited to attend a ball and I do not intend to miss it.”

I
N THE FORTNIGHT BEFORE
the St. Merryn House ball, Daintry was very busy, for the Season was in full swing, and since she frequently had as many as four engagements in a single night, she soon began to feel as if she had no time whatever to think. Penthorpe’s return and the resuming of her betrothal—though not worded in quite that manner, of course—had been announced in the London
Gazette,
and she had come to accept the fact that there was nothing she could do to avoid her fate.

She had approached St. Merryn only once to ask if he would consider releasing her from her word of honor, explaining that she had come to the melancholy conclusion that she was not cut out to be a proper wife to any man, let alone to one who could forget her very existence for months at a time. Her father’s reaction was exactly what she had feared it would be.

“You gave me your word, girl, and not another one will I hear,” he had roared.
“This
betrothal will end in marriage, and until it does, you will pretend to be delighted with it, for I’ll not have this family made the talk of London all for the whim of a capricious young chit. By God, I’m putting my foot down!”

The gossips were certainly out in full force, she knew, for not only was there Princess Charlotte’s new betrothal to discuss, as well as a host of the latest
crim con
stories but the Duchess of Argyll and her husband had come to town.

Daintry saw the duchess a week before her own ball, at Lady Cardigan’s great assembly, which she attended with members of her family, escorted by Penthorpe. The announcement of the duke and duchess’s arrival soon after their own caused a noticeable stir.

Watching the noble couple descend the broad marble steps into the ballroom, Lady Ophelia said, “Dash, what is Penelope Cardigan thinking of? There is sure to be a scene, for Anglesey and Wellington are both here tonight, and Anglesey won’t relish meeting his erstwhile wife when she has not only the higher rank of duchess but her adoring new husband by her side as well.”

Daintry, watching now, as indeed everyone else was too, said, “There is Lady Jersey, ma’am, hurrying to meet them.”

“And Wellington yonder, looking as blue as a megrim,” Penthorpe said. He had dined in Berkeley Square with the family, as had the Seacourts, Lady Catherine Chauncey, and Lord Alvanley. Afterward, everyone except St. Merryn had journeyed together to Cardigan House to attend the assembly.

Daintry had managed to be polite to Geoffrey for Susan’s sake, but he seemed to have put the past out of his head, for he treated her just as he had before the horrid night at Seacourt Head, clearly assuming that she had forgiven him.

“The Argylls won’t stay,” Charles said. Turning to watch his wife perform the minuet with a dashing young blade who had rushed up to claim her hand the minute they had arrived, he added, “The rest of the females will make it a dashed sight too uncomfortable for her, even with Sally to give her a lead.”

He was proved right, for despite Lady Jersey’s display of family loyalty—the duchess being her husband’s sister—the rest of the company treated her grace as if she had been invisible, and the Duke and Duchess of Argyll stayed less than half an hour.

“It is too bad,” Daintry said with disgust when she saw that they had gone. “Lord Uxbridge—that is, Anglesey—treated her with the most shameful contempt by seducing Charlotte Wellesley when he was still married, and yet there is Wellington, chatting with him as if they were the best of friends, when in fact Charlotte was his brother’s wife before Uxbridge seduced her!”

“But they
are
the best of friends,” a familiar deep voice murmured behind her, “and since Ux—Anglesey is also a wounded hero who is much admired, you would do better not to speak of such things where you can so easily be overheard, you know.”

She whirled to find Deverill attired in a particularly well cut coat of dark blue superfine over skintight biscuit-colored breeches that set off his masculine attributes to perfection, looking amused rather than stern, but although it was the first time she had seen him since the attack on his life and her heart leapt at the sight of him, she said, “I don’t care if they do hear me. She is the victim, as even the Scottish courts agreed, for they allowed her to divorce him, did they not? Yet there he stands, pompous and self-assured, the victor of the night.”

Lady Ophelia said, stifling a yawn, “But so it always is, my dear, that ’tis the woman who is blamed and punished. Though she did sue him for divorce, she could only have done so in such an odd country as Scotland and will always be treated as an outcast in England; while, as you see, despite the fact that his misconduct resulted in a verdict against him for thousands of pounds and not one but two divorces, he can do as he pleases.”

“Your aunt is right, you know,” Deverill said quietly. “A woman has certain social rights, but she must take good care when she asserts them that she does not draw too much attention, lest she cast herself quite beyond the pale.”

Seacourt said with a spark in his eyes, “Never expected to hear you preach moderation, Deverill. Turning over a new leaf?”

“But he’s right,” Penthorpe said. “Dash it all, the rules are clear, and it don’t do to be flouting them when the only result must be disaster. Oh, I say, Lady Susan, I believe that’s our dance they are striking up for.”

Daintry caught Geoffrey’s eye as Penthorpe slipped under his guard to whisk Susan away, and thought he looked angry and as if he meant to go after his wife, but before he could do so, Davina rejoined them and, ignoring the others, said with a flirtatious laugh, “Geoffrey, I do hope you have not bespoken a partner for this dance, for it is the most vexatious thing, but I have none. I know a proper lady must never ask a gentleman …” Allowing her words to trail into silence, she fluttered her lashes at him.

Seacourt’s flashing grin appeared, and he said, “You need certainly not ask, my dear. I would be most honored if you would accept my hand for this quadrille.”

“I like that,” Charles muttered as they went off together. “The wench ought to ask her own husband if she needs a partner, though if she does, it’s for the first time in her life.”

Daintry smiled at him. “You detest dancing the quadrille.”

“Who does not?” he demanded. “All that dashed capering about! It’s all of a piece, but I’m not going to watch her make sheep’s eyes at that damned Seacourt. I’m for the card room.”

Daintry, seeing her great-aunt turn to sit down beside Lady St. Merryn and Miss Davies, was about to follow her example when a firm hand stopped her. “I hope you will take pity on an injured man,” Deverill said with a warm smile, “and walk with me to fetch some refreshment for these ladies. They all look as if they would enjoy something cool.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Lady St. Merryn said gratefully, fanning herself. “I do hope our ball is not so hot as this one is. I declare, I am well nigh to fainting from this dreadful heat.”

Lady Ophelia agreed. “A cup of punch would wake me up a bit,” she said frankly. “Every year, I must be in London for a good six weeks before I become accustomed to the later hours and begin to sleep as well as I do in the country. Go along with him, Daintry, do, and bring us some biscuits with that punch.”

Allowing Deverill to draw her hand into the crook of his arm, Daintry looked up at him and saw that he looked rather pale. “Are you fully recovered from your injuries?” she asked. “I must tell you that I… I felt quite dreadfully responsible when I learned what had happened—for having sent you away as I did.”

“You need not have felt that way,” he said quietly. “You were right to send me away. I should not have struck Seacourt.” He glanced down at her, and the sudden glow of warmth in his eyes made her heart beat so hard that she wondered they could not both hear it. He said, “I am nearly my old self again, but I confess, I still get a trifle dizzy when I stand up too quickly.” Patting his waistcoat pocket, he added with a twinkle, “My servants do not agree that I should be out of my bed yet. I have discovered that two of them who delight in attempting to outdo each other in their service to me, have each bestowed upon me a packet of the headache powders the doctor left for me to take.”

“Goodness, ought you not to take them then?”