“No, sir, it is your excellent produce. We don’t get such lovely fresh food in London,”
she explained.
After dinner the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, but a good gossip between the old friends would have to wait till Mrs. Denver retired, which she soon did, claiming fatigue after the trip.
“And now you must tell me all about Maundley and the necklace,”
Mary said, eyes brightly eager. “Selby gave me only the merest hint in his note.”
To this intimate friend, closer than a sister, Francesca left nothing out of the telling except the name Lord Devane. It felt good to empty her budget and say all the mean things she had been bottling up.
“What a perfect wretch your father-in-law is! Mr. Travers would never treat me so shabbily.”
“It is David’s fault, Mary. That is the fact of the matter. Papa was right. I should never have married him. My head was turned by his handsome face and his air of fashion, and, I suppose, the title. I was a fool. You are the wise one.”
“Here I have been envying you when you wrote about all the balls and plays.”
“Vanity, vanity, all is vanity in London. I am cured. What I see about me here is what I want.”
The charm had fled from fashionable friends, and from their ornate, gilt-trimmed mansions stuffed with worldly wealth. Mr. Travers’s home showed every sign of prosperity without the ostentation of noble houses. It was large enough, comfortable enough, good enough—when the occupants were so obviously in love and happy.
“Then I shall just have to get busy and find you a new husband,”
Mary said impishly.
“I have decided to be happy as a widow.”
“Oh, Fran! What fustian! You know you want a husband. You don’t want to grow old alone. You should raise a family.”
“I would like a child. Perhaps you’re right. But there is no hurry. I have taken a house nearby. It will be ready in July. Next time I marry, I shall take my time, and know who and what I am marrying.”
“I had known Ronald fifteen years. There were no horrid surprises. He is perfectly satisfactory.”
“Well, I don’t think I want to wait fifteen years!”
Francesca laughed.
“Are you forgetting Ronald has a cousin whom you have already known for ten years?”
Mary asked with a sapient glint.
“Arthur Travers, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Francesca smiled pleasantly, but something in her balked at the idea of marrying an Arthur Travers. He was just what she had been claiming she wanted. A good, sensible farmer of excellent character and possessing a prosperous estate. She mentally added another requisite to her list. The gentleman must be someone she could love. That, she saw, was going to be the problem.
Lord Devane, becoming impatient with Maundley, ran him to ground at Whitehall and handed over the necklace, along with the note from Miss Sullivan. He watched as Maundley fingered the diamonds and read the note a second time. His face showed neither pleasure to recover his goods nor sorrow at the trouble he had caused his innocent daughter-in-law. The only discernible emotion at first was anger. “This is some scheme set afoot by Lady Camden,”
he said.
“You are mistaken. Lady Camden is not yet aware that the diamonds are recovered. I have undertaken this on my own.”
Maundley wanted to call Devane a liar, but did not wish to go quite so far. His most intimate friends had been horrified at his treatment of David’s widow. The braver of them had even hinted that Lady Camden might be telling the truth. He was not entirely surprised at this outcome, but he was grief-stricken.
“That’s it, then. My son was no better than he should be,”
he said, chewing back his feelings.
“That is not quite it, sir. I realize you are shocked to learn the truth about Lord Camden, but you really must call off your lawyer. And as you are a gentleman, I’m sure you will wish to apologize to Lady Camden, and ask her forgiveness for the unconscionable manner in which you have abused her.”
A fiery flash of anger leapt from the man’s tired eyes. “If she’d been a proper wife, none of this would have happened.”
“It is my understanding that Lady Camden was a very proper wife, and indeed a proper widow until she learned of Camden’s carrying-on. I know this is hard to take, but wronging your daughter-in-law does nothing to lighten the blow.”
He would have said more had he not been aware of Maundley’s deep distress. This was not the time to harass him, but he meant to get that apology to take to Francesca. To his relief, Maundley suggested it himself.
“Yes, of course. I’ll write to Lady Camden at once. As you are acting on her behalf, even without her knowledge, perhaps you would deliver my apology.”
Devane bowed formally. “That was my intention, sir.”
Maundley wrote his stiff note, and with a pang of conscience added a mention that Lady Camden must feel free to return to Half Moon Street if the move was inconvenient. He assumed Devane was aware of her going and her new address. He also wrote a note to his solicitor, telling him to abandon the case. He gave the former to Lord Devane to deliver. “You will know where to find her, I expect,”
he said.
“I do. Thank you, sir.”
Maundley did not reply in words, but just nodded, as a man in a trance. Devane hopped into his curricle and darted immediately to Half Moon Street. Maundley’s sister was to inhabit the house for a few weeks, for the looks of things, and it was her servant who answered the door. “Lady Camden?”
she asked, startled. “Why, she’s not here. She’s moved.”
Devane’s dismay was hardly greater than his shock. He had been anticipating the moment when he handed that letter to Francesca. A dozen times he had lived in imagination her initial anger at seeing him, then her wonder as she read the letter, her growing gratitude and joy, and, finally, her repentance. He counted a good deal on her repentance to heal the breach. “Could you tell me her new address?”
“I have no idea where she went.”
“Perhaps if you asked your mistress,”
he said, impatience arising at every delay.
The servant went off, but was back in a moment. “She doesn’t know either. No forwarding address was left,”
she said.
“Perhaps Lord Maundley ...”
he mumbled in confusion.
“He don’t know. She didn’t tell anyone.”
“I see.”
He dampened down the rising impatience and returned to his curricle.
Mr. Irwin and Mr. Caine were his likeliest helpers in this fix. He had already learned Irwin’s address. Unfortunately, Mr. Irwin was not home. Grimly determined, he got Caine’s address from Irwin’s butler and darted over to the Albany, a row of bachelors’
apartments off Piccadilly. There was no reply, which seemed odd. One would have thought the butler would answer the door even if the master was out. He called next door, and was told that Mr. Caine had left town.
“When will he be back?”
“Not this Season. He’s given up the apartment.”
“Thank you.”
The remainder of the day was wasted entirely in talking to friends who had no idea where either Lady Camden or Mr. Caine had gone. Devane’s frustration mounted higher at each failure. It was not till that evening that he learned the mysterious destination. His informant was Mr. Irwin, run to ground at Brooke’s. Devane dashed to his table for an interview. Mr. Irwin seemed to be intimate with all the details of the case.
“Mr. Caine has taken Lady Camden off to the country while he fights the legal matter out with Maundley’s solicitor, Rafferty. Rafferty tried to get Lady Camden to sign a release of half her dowry, but Caine is awake on all suits. That would be as good as an admission she had stolen the bauble. He hired Duncan, an excellent chap. Perhaps you know him?”
“Yes.”
“Things are looking up. She may get away with paying only a thousand.”
Devane saw his glory diminishing before his very eyes. It seemed to him that for a purely disinterested friend, Mr. Caine was putting himself to a deal of trouble on Lady Camden’s behalf. The man was obviously in love with her. “She will pay nothing. The ladybird in question returned the necklace to Maundley today,”
he said angrily.
“You don’t mean it! Who was she?”
Irwin asked.
“The name was Rita something,”
he replied vaguely. “What, exactly, do you mean by saying Caine has taken Lady Camden to the country? Do you mean her own home, or his? ...”
“No, no, she wouldn’t want to go to her own home, and he could hardly take her to his bachelor’s place.”
“She could go with her chaperone if an engagement has been announced.”
“But it hasn’t. It was his married sister that Caine mentioned. A Mrs. Travers.”
“Do you have the address?”
“No, I didn’t think to get it, but Mr. Caine is to write to me. It’s in Surrey.”
“Thank you, Mr. Irwin. You have been very helpful, as usual. I wonder if I could impose on you for one more thing? If you would be so kind as to let me know the address as soon as you hear from Mr. Caine.”
“Certainly, Lord Devane,”
he said, frowning in curiosity. “Mind you, he may not write for a few days.”
“A few days!”
It seemed he was never to find her. “Have you any idea what part of Surrey Mrs. Travers lives in?”
After much head scratching and thinking, Mr. Irwin thought he had heard Caine mention Reigate. “Couldn’t swear to it, mind, but I think he mentioned Redhill being so convenient, and having such good shops. Yes, I’m sure he said something about Reigate Castle, now that I think of it. What used to be Reigate Castle, I mean. Nothing but rubble now, I believe. Is there an old Gothic arch there?”
“A Gothic archway was erected a few decades ago.”
“That’s it, then.”
“You don’t know the name of the estate?”
“It had something to do with trees—White Oaks, perhaps. No, that is Lady Camden’s ancestral home.”
“Poplar, mulberry, cedar ...”
“That don’t ring a bell, but you’ll find it, Devane. There cannot be that many trees near Reigate. Places named after trees, I mean to say. Look in the parish records.”
“Yes, an excellent idea.”
Devane drove directly home, planning his next approach to Francesca. He was no longer precisely a knight in shining armor, but at least he had outdone Mr. Caine. He had actually recovered the cursed necklace, and had Maundley’s apology in his pocket, whereas Caine had only hired a solicitor.
Devane regretted that he had told Irwin the case was closed. He might hear from Caine and relay the news, stealing his hard-earned thunder. But Caine didn’t have Maundley’s apology, and if he didn’t write to Mr. Irwin for a few days
...
Then, too, Irwin might not reply immediately.
Eagerness for Francesca’s approval was a spur to his actions. He wanted to be the one to tell her himself, to see her face when she heard the news, and read that letter. If he left for Reigate at once, he could be there before morning. He might even find her by afternoon. He called his valet and groom and ordered them to prepare to leave immediately. It would mean driving in the dark, but he’d take his carriage, and try to get some sleep along the way.
Lord Devane’s servants were too well trained to object verbally, but by various delaying tactics they showed their displeasure in being yanked out of the house in the middle of the night. His valet made a tarrying business of preparing his lordship’s clothing and packing. “How long a stay shall we prepare for, milord?”
“Three or four days.”
“Will you require hunting clothes?”
“One does not go to Reigate to hunt, Hudder.”
“Buckskins and topboots, or—”
“Breeches and Hessians.”
“Will you require evening clothes, milord?”
“Of course I will. They have evenings at Reigate, don’t they? I shall also require shirts and cravats and stockings and small cloths. Good God, one would think you had never packed a bag before.”
Hudder took this outburst for an indication he had gone his length, and proceeded with the packing. Next it was the groom’s turn to inquire what carriages were needed, and what mounts.
“I plan to travel in my traveling carriage,”
Devane said with heavy irony. “Hudder and a footman can follow in the curricle. I may need a footman.”
“Will you be wanting a mount?”
“No. Just the traveling carriage and my curricle.”
It was an hour before the carriage was ready and Devane made comfortable with a pillow and blanket, to try to catch a few hours’
sleep. As the horses clipped along in the blackness of the night, Devane closed his eyes, but he knew sleep was not going to come easily. He let his mind roam over the past days, wondering how he had made such a muddle of what should have been a perfectly simple affair.
How had he, a gentleman of broad experience, ever mistaken Francesca for anything but a proper lady? Her great crime was to have gone to the Pantheon. There was scarcely a lady in London who had not done so. She, in her inexperience, had gone with a whelp who chose a public place to try to hound her into marrying him. Oh, yes, and she had worn a patch on her breast. A very attractive patch. A very attractive breast, come to think of it.
As for the rest of it, it was Maundley’s tale that she had stolen the diamonds that did the damage. Damn the man. Yet one had to pity him, learning that his beloved son was a knave and a scoundrel. One heard the younger scion—Horton, was it—was more stable. Lady Camden’s reputation was not quite ruined, but it was under fire. Her running away at this time was at least prima facie evidence of guilt. That was ill-done of Caine to have rushed her out of town.
She must be made to see this, and be brought back. With himself as an escort, she would soon be reestablished to not only respectability, but preeminence. He would remove her from that pack of Camden’s she had been running around with. He did not say the word
marriage
even to himself, but it was in the back of his mind. Who better than a husband to guide her, to show her the ropes and polish her town bronze?
Eventually he slept, and not much later was awakened by the crowing of a rooster. Darkness had required a slow pace, and they were just approaching Reigate. The rising sun edged the eastern horizon in crimson.