It was pointless to begin his search at five o’clock in the morning, so he hired a room at the Swan and caught a few hours’
sleep. At eight he rose, bathed, dressed, had a hasty breakfast, and set out for the closest church to peruse the register. He began with the parish church of St. Mary Magdalen, and by lunchtime he had visited all the local churches. He had encountered more than one Travers family, but none that met his requirements. Unfortunately, he had not thought to learn Mr. Travers
’
s first name, but he knew at least that he was looking for a Travers fairly recently married to a Miss Caine.
He bought a map, and at lunch he pored over it, noting with dismay how many places he had to visit. Gatton, Leigh Church, Charlwood Church, and a little farther afield, Buckland, Betchworth, Brockham Green. This could take days. He would divide the territory up and send his servants into the countryside to examine the church registers. He would snoop around town. If the Traverses lived nearby, they must visit the local shops. Mr. Travers must execute some business here in the city.
In the afternoon he began his search at the stable yards, thence on to the inns. At times he felt he had gained his end. “Mr. Travers? Oh, aye, he stables his rig here from time to time. It’s old Mac you mean, and not Ted Travers?”
“A youngish fellow, married to a Miss Caine.”
“Oh, now, I don’t know as I’d call Mac young. Seventy something, and young Ted is fifty if he’s a day. But a young fifty. Still spry.”
“Does Ted have a son?”
“All daughters. Spinsters, all five of them. It’s the squinty eye that destroys their looks.”
Next he tried the inn stable yards, with a similar lack of success. He spoke to real estate agents and lawyers and doctors. It seemed the professionals and businessmen of Reigate made a living on people named Travers, but never the Travers he wanted.
His minions returned with a similar lack of success, and by dinnertime Lord Devane feared Mr. Irwin had led him astray. He was temporarily downcast, till it occurred to him that the marriage must have taken place in Miss Caine’s parish. He was unclear as to its precise location, but at least he knew it was close to White Oaks, the Wilson estate.
It was quite by accident that he finally made the discovery that evening in the tap room at the Swan. He went in to have a few ales before retiring, and found himself sharing a table with Mr. York, a prosperous farmer. The farmer mentioned his business almost as soon as he had introduced himself. “I’ve been down at the Elms, buying a brood milcher from Mr. Travers. He has an excellent herd.”
Lord Devane’s glass hit the table with a thud. “Mr. Travers? The Elms! By God, that’s it!”
Mr. York looked at him obliquely, “You know Mr. Travers? His herd is certainly the best hereabouts, but I own I am surprised his fame has spread all the way to London.”
“Is he married to a Miss Caine?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t meet his wife. She had company visiting her. An old school friend, Lady Camden.”
“You must tell me how to reach the Elms.”
“Why, it is no secret, milord. You just take the road southeast out of town and continue five miles.”
Lord Devane rose, looked at the head-and-shoulders clock on a shelf, and sat down again. Nine-thirty was too late to leave for a call. He wouldn’t be there before ten. But tomorrow morning he would see her. “You must allow me to buy you a drink, Mr. York.”
Mr. York looked at his full glass and said, “Why, thank you. A little later, perhaps. Tell me, milord, as you are in the House, what is the official opinion on this war? With Austria on our side, and Blücher leading the Prussians, things are looking up, eh?”
“Things are definitely looking up.”
Upon first awakening the next morning in a strange room, Francesca was momentarily confused. The window was on the wrong side of the room, and the curtains ... Then memory washed over her, and though she was happy to be at Mary’s, she felt that the past was still not quite behind her. The necklace affair had still to be settled. It bothered her, too, that she had skulked away from town like a thief. Yet, if she had remained there, she would be confined within walls on such a beautiful day as this. Not even the walls of the house on Half Moon Street, but in some shabby rented apartment.
She threw back the coverlet and went to the window. Sunlight streamed on fields as green as emeralds. The branches of the elm trees swayed gently, suggesting a mild breeze. She lifted her eyes to the sky, and saw a fat cloud shaped like a lady’s bonnet.
She wanted to go out barefoot and run through those meadows while the dew was still on the grass. She wanted to gather wildflowers, and to wade in that silvery ripple of stream weaving through the meadow. The water would be icy and fresh. She pushed aside the city gowns in her closet and chose a simple rose-sprigged muslin.
Mary was already at the table when she went belowstairs. “What would you like to do today, Fran?”
she asked while Francesca examined the sideboard. She chose eggs, bacon, toast, and even tried some of Ron’s favorite, fried potatoes. “I have the whole day free. Tomorrow the ladies church group is meeting here in the afternoon to discuss the bazaar, but today we are free. Would you like to drive into Redhill? Tom isn’t using the carriage, and they have some very nice shops.”
Francesca brought her plate to the table and began eating. “Let’s not go shopping. I’d like to just putter around outdoors. Walk through the park, talk to the cows, and take the jig for a little drive in the countryside this afternoon.”
Mary tilted her head aside and smiled at her. “Just do the things we used to be so eager to get away from, you mean? Do you remember, back at White Oaks, how you used to crave the excitement of the city?”
“I’m cured. I’ve had a surfeit of city excitement. It was horrid, Mary.”
“It all sounded so wonderful in your letters. You mean the last while was horrid, once you found out about David.”
“I suppose that is what I mean. Now I just want to rusticate, and let my bruised spirits heal. Show me your chickens. You are always boasting of them. I must admit their eggs are delicious. They taste so fresh.”
“Just gathered this morning,”
Mary said proudly.
“Cook sprinkles a little chopped chives in them. The herb garden is my prerogative, too.”
“As soon as we’ve admired your chickens, we’ll tour your herb garden.”
“Exciting!”
Mary said, and laughed, but she was pleased to see that her old friend had not grown beyond such simple pleasures. She had been entertaining the fear that Francesca would have turned into a grand lady, but her toilette and her interests belied that fear.
“You must not think I am utterly sunk to raising chickens and chives. Your arrival is timely. There is an assembly tomorrow evening. Not the big do in Reigate, but Mrs. Huddleston is giving a small private assembly. I shall have a rout, too, while you are here.”
These functions meant little to Francesca, but she sensed that they featured large in Mary’s social life, and expressed the proper interest.
During the day the ladies reestablished their easy footing of previous times. It was pleasant to drive along the country lanes in a pony cart, an umbrella warding off the sun’s punishing rays. While they were gone Selby was busy inventing other pleasures for them. He rooted out the croquet mallets, balls, hoops, and pegs, and set up a course in the park. Mrs. Denver was called upon to make the fourth player, and the afternoon was idled away with this game. Mary served lemonade and cake in lieu of afternoon tea.
In the evening Fran helped make purses for the church bazaar, and fended off Mary’s idea of driving over to Fernbank to visit Mr. Arthur Travers later in the week.
“Very well,”
Mary said, “but I give you fair warning, I shall invite him to dinner on Sunday, so prepare your best bib and tucker.”
The next day was similarly free of any but the most simple diversions. In the morning Mary had her way and drove Fran and Mrs. Denver over to Redhill to visit the shops. With an air of daring she suggested they dine at the inn. Mrs. Travers was told, when they returned to the Elms, that a gentleman had called for Lady Camden. He hadn’t left his name, but he was from London. He said he would return in the afternoon.
“It must be Mr. Irwin,”
Francesca said when the message was relayed. “Are you sure he did not leave his name?”
No, but his description, “a tall, good-looking city gentleman,”
sounded like Mr. Irwin.
“I am happy he is coming, for I shall be busy with my church group for a few hours this afternoon,”
Mary reminded her. “Is he a beau, Fran?”
“No, he is really Selby’s friend, but he helped me with that wretched necklace business. Perhaps he will take your place for another game of croquet while you attend your meeting.”
Lord Devane, who had called at the Elms that morning, figured that Lady Camden should be back from her expedition to Redhill by three, and at five minutes to three his curricle rolled up the drive of the Elms. Lady Camden had gone to the garden with a book to read while awaiting her caller. She was not reading, however, but sitting with the book on her lap, daydreaming, when the servant approached and said, wide-eyed with alarm, “It’s Lord Devane to see you, milady.”
The book fell from Francesca’s fingers, and her face turned as white as paper. “How dare he! I am not at home to Lord Devane. Pray tell him so.”
“But he’s a lord,”
the servant replied in consternation. Showing him in had been harrowing enough. How was she to turn him away?
“He is a thoroughgoing wretch. If he makes any trouble, call Mr. Caine.”
She rose and went into the house, not to grant Lord Devane an audience, but to make sure he did not charge his way in.
The servant went, trembling, to do as she was bid. “She says to tell you she’s not at home. Sorry, milord,”
she said, red in the face.
Devane’s black brows drew together in a quick frown. He took a deep breath, wanting to lash out at someone. Was this his reward for dashing about the city and countryside to help Lady Camden? “Pray tell her it is extremely important. A matter to her advantage,”
he said through thin lips.
The servant ran Lady Camden to ground in the morning parlor. Something drew Francesca to Devane like a magnet, but this was as close as she could go without being seen. Devane’s message was delivered. Lady Camden pokered up and replied, “Pray tell Lord Devane that my idea of advantage is quite at odds with his. I have no desire to see him,
ever.”
“He said it’s important. Extremely important.”
“Not to me,”
she said, and turned to stride from the room.
The servant returned to the door. “She says your idea of advantage and hers are at odds. She won’t see you, milord,
ever.”
Devane’s nostrils flared dangerously. He fingered the letter from Maundley and seriously considered the feasibility of forcing his way in. “May I speak to Mrs. Travers, if you please?
”
he said.
“She’s at a meeting. In there,”
the servant added, tossing her head toward the saloon. The buzz of female voices at work was audible behind the door.
“Is it a cabinet meeting, that she cannot be disturbed?”
he demanded.
“No, a church meeting. I’ll get her.”
Mrs. Travers was summoned with the important words, “Lord Devane would like a word, ma’am. Very insistent, he is.”
“Lord Devane?”
Mary said, puzzled. “Who can he be?”
“A friend of Lady Camden’s, only she won’t speak to him.”
Mary was highly curious, and not entirely displeased to be summoned by a lord in front of her friends. “I had best see what he wants,”
she said, and went to the door.
During the brief hiatus Devane had assumed his most beguiling expression. He could usually charm the ladies if he had a mind to, and it seemed he was going to require a conspirator in this house to reach Francesca.
Mary looked at him and saw an extremely elegant gentleman wearing an intriguing smile. Authority exuded from him like spring sap from a pine tree. He performed a bow of exquisite grace and said, “You cannot be Mrs. Travers! I expected an older lady.”
She blushed and smiled prettily. “I am indeed Mrs. Travers, Lord Devane. How can I help you?”
“Perhaps if we could have a moment in private?”
She led him into her husband’s study. “It is about Fran, Lady Camden, I believe?”
“Precisely. We have had a—falling out,”
he said with a sad grimace. “She refuses to see me, but I have a most important matter to discuss with her. Perhaps if you told her it is about the diamond neck—”
He came to an abrupt halt.
“I am in her confidence in the matter,”
Mary said simply.
“Oh, good.”
He smiled again, more naturally. “I feared I had put my foot in it there. I have news that I think she will wish to hear.”
If there was one thing Mary knew about Fran, it was that she was as stubborn as a mule. If she had refused to see this terribly handsome Lord Devane, she would not be dissuaded. “If you would care to tell me the nature of the news ...”
Devane fingered the letter from Maundley. He wanted to be there when Francesca read it, but as that was impossible, he handed it to Mrs. Travers. “I shall await her reply,”
he said.
Mary went into the hall, where she met her servant. “Where is Lady Camden?”
“She’s gone up to her room,”
the servant said. “Do you want me to take that up to her ladyship?”
“No, I shall take it myself.”
She darted upstairs, tapped at the door, and rushed into Francesca’s room, waving the letter. “Fran, what is amiss with Lord Devane that you are treating him so shabbily?”
she scolded. “He is terribly handsome, and I know he is in love with you. He sent this note. It’s about the diamonds.”
“He is in love with himself,”
Francesca retorted, but she took the letter and tore it open. That gratifying range of emotions Devane had been imagining did not occur. She frowned and read it twice, then a third time.
“I have this day recovered the Maundley necklace. I apologize most sincerely for thinking you were involved in its disappearance, and humbly ask your forgiveness. Naturally I shall inform my solicitor of this turn. You must feel free to return to Half Moon Street if you so desire. Sincerely, Maundley.”