Authors: Brighton Honeymoon
Ironically, had she taken the spyglass to the window and focused it in a westerly direction, she might have seen Sir Aubrey’s high-perch phaeton turn west off the Grand Parade en route to Bedford Square. For Sir Aubrey had returned to Brighton, and so intent was he upon the culmination of his quest that he did not even stop in the Marine Parade to change his travel-stained clothes, but presented himself at the door of Number 11, Bedford Square.
The house was new; in fact, completion of the thirty-six buildings which would eventually comprise the Square was not projected for another two years. Still, as the timid little maid showed him to the drawing room. Sir Aubrey’s hackles rose, as if the house were haunted by some malevolent spirit.
He identified the spirit the moment Mrs. Jennings entered the room. She was draped head to foot in black, her pale, round face pinched with distaste as she surveyed her fashionable visitor.
“Sir Aubrey Tabor, is it? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
So I can’t imagine what you are doing here,
was the unspoken message.
“I regret that I have never had the pleasure, Mrs. Jennings, and must beg you to forgive me for calling in this manner. I am seeking information on a young woman by the name of Miss Polly Cr—er, Hampton.”
Were it possible, Mrs. Jennings’s air of disapproval became even more pronounced. “So, you’ve an interest in Polly, have you? I daresay I know what it is!”
“Unless you are a gypsy, Mrs. Jennings, pray spare me any attempts at fortune-telling,” replied Sir Aubrey at his haughty best. “I believe Miss Hampton lived with you and your husband after the death of her mother?”
“Indeed she did, at my husband’s insistence. I warned him he was nurturing a viper in his bosom, but nothing could change his mind once he was convinced of his Christian duty. He was a good man, but too unmindful of his position. What must people think, but that she was his natural child?”
Sir Aubrey had, in fact, suspected precisely that, but now found himself obliged to abandon this promising theory. Any man who truly cared for his daughter would not inflict such a hostile stepmother upon her. The thought of his Polly forced to choose between the charity of this vicious woman and the lechery of Mr. Minchin was enough to make Sir Aubrey’s blood boil.
“Am I to understand, then, that you disapproved of your husband’s actions?” he asked silkily.
“Indeed, you are! She was born in sin, and just like her mother, her ambitions are higher than her moral standards! You might be interested to know, Sir Aubrey, that your inamorata has been parading about Brighton under an assumed name!”
“My good woman, you can tell me very little about Miss Crump—er, Hampton—that I do not already know, save perhaps the name of her father.”
“Her father?” echoed Mrs. Jennings, visibly deflated by her visitor’s lack of surprise at this revelation. “Truth to tell, Sir Aubrey, I don’t know.”
If her first effort at disconcerting her guest had been a disappointment, this simple disclosure was a resounding success. Sir Aubrey’s bored expression changed to one of despair. “You
don’t know?”
“I never knew who he was. I daresay my husband may have known, but if so, he took the secret to his grave. Her mother swore her lover was Quality, but I never believed her. Depend upon it, if that one had snared herself a gentleman, she would have been trumpeting it from the rooftops!”
And so the search was over. He would never know whether or not Polly’s lineage was worthy of him; in fact, the only assurance he had that the man was a gentleman had been called into question. And yet, somewhere between his departure from Brighton and his return, he had discovered that it did not really matter at all.
“Mrs. Jennings, I thank you. You have been more help than you will ever know.” As further proof of this statement, he bowed deeply from the waist, raising her black-gloved hand to his lips.
“Have I?” demanded the widow, not at all certain she was pleased to have been of assistance. “What did I do?”
“You have surmised that my interest in Miss Hampton is, er, amorous in nature, but I assure you my intentions were not dishonorable. I had hoped to ascertain that Miss Crump’s—that is, Miss Hampton’s—parentage was sufficiently lofty, as befitted Lady Tabor of Tabor Hall.”
“Well, I trust you have no more doubts on
that
head!” Mrs. Jennings replied waspishly.
“No, indeed. In fact, fifteen minutes in your company has been enough to convince me that I would marry her if her father were Tom o’Bedlam!”
Chapter 14
It is well done, and fitting for a princess Descended of so many royal kings.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
Antony and Cleopatra
By the time Sir Aubrey returned to the house on the Marine Parade, darkness had fallen and its inhabitants had ascended to their various chambers to prepare for that evening’s entertainment. Upon inquiring of Evers as to the nature of this engagement, Sir Aubrey was informed that the Prince Regent was holding a reception at the Royal Pavilion, to which the entire party had been invited. The invitation had included Sir Aubrey’s name as well, should he care to attend.
No, he thought impatiently, he did
not
care to attend. Why should he choose to swelter in Prinny’s overheated, over-decorated dollhouse when all he really wanted was a quiet corner where he might offer himself heart and soul to Miss Polly Crump—rather, Hampton. He cared not at all what her name was, so long as she would allow him to change it to Tabor—
Lady
Tabor. Lady Tabor! Good God! His mother!
Almost as if his thoughts had summoned her, Lady Tabor entered the room at that moment, resplendent in purple satin.
“Well, Aubrey, I was beginning to wonder if you had abandoned me to the weaver,” she remarked, giving him her cheek to kiss. “I trust your business in London was concluded to your satisfaction?”
“Not yet, but I hope it will be very soon,” he answered. “Sit down, Mama. I have something to tell you.”
Arching one eyebrow in unconcealed curiosity, Lady Tabor sat.
“Mama, I need not enumerate for you the responsibilities of a man in my position—marriage, providing an heir to ensure the succession—in fact, thus far it has been you who have been obliged to point them out to me. I own, I have been lax in the performance of those duties because, until recently, I had not met the lady with whom performing them would not be a punishment.”
“Aubrey!” gasped his mother. “Am I to understand that you intend to marry at last?”
“If she will have me,” confessed Sir Aubrey. “And to be blunt, ma’am, I doubt that you will approve of my choice. Nevertheless, she
is
my choice, and I will expect you to show her every courtesy,” he added with a hint of steel in his voice.
Lady Tabor’s stunned expression gave way to one of wounded innocence. “I hope I would never be rude to anyone you held dear,” she sniffed, conveniently forgetting the odious Mr. Brundy.
“Be that as it may—” A slight sound made him wheel round, and for the first time since the night he had kissed her on Lady Belmont’s balcony, he beheld his chosen bride. She was dressed for the royal reception in a diaphanous gown of pomona green silk that made her red-gold hair shine like a newly minted penny. Sir Aubrey Tabor, noted
bon vivant,
felt his mouth go dry.
As for Polly, she had not known of Sir Aubrey’s return until she had entered the drawing room and discovered him
tête-à-tête
with his mother. She had not thought to see him again until she was safely wed, and felt caught off guard. She took a step backwards, prepared to slip away unseen, but some small sound betrayed her, and he turned.
“Miss Crump.”
He bowed over her hand, but his gaze never left her face. To Polly, trying without success to interpret the intensity in his gray eyes, it seemed as if he could see right through to her soul. She thought guiltily of the packed valise that was even now hidden under the bushes in front of the house, waiting for Lord Sutcliffe to retrieve it en route to the Royal Pavilion.
“I trust you had a pleasant journey, Sir Aubrey?” she asked with a fair semblance of calm, hoping he could not see the pounding of her heart above her
décolletage.
He relinquished her hand with an effort. “Pleasant enough, although longer than I might have wished.”
It was perhaps fortunate that this awkward reunion was interrupted by the appearance of the Brundys, both in full evening regalia. As before the Bedford rout, Lady Helen was fretting over her husband’s approaching brush with royalty. Mr. Brundy, however, was as unmoved by the ordeal before him as he was unsurprised by the unexpected reappearance of his houseguest.
“ ‘ullo, Aubrey,” he said, as casually as if he had bade his friend goodbye a scant half-hour earlier. “Care to do the pretty with us at ‘is ‘ighness’s ‘ouse? We’ll wait, if you like.”
Sir Aubrey declined, and so Mr. Brundy escorted the ladies to the Royal Pavilion, leaving the weary traveller a quiet house in which to contemplate his future. So pleasant did he find this pastime that he was not aware of the unmarked closed carriage that drew up before the house, nor of the furtive figure that disembarked from this equipage, snatched a scarred valise from underneath a bush, leaped back into the vehicle, and drove away.
* * * *
Lord Sutcliffe, clutching Polly’s valise to his chest as if it were his only protection against a hostile world, leaned back against the squabs and let out a long breath. Thus far, events (though moving more rapidly than he could have wished) were turning out well enough. His first challenge had been to ensure that the marquess went on to the Royal Pavilion alone, leaving him free to fetch his bride’s belongings. This had been accomplished easily enough, as the viscount’s nervous state had resulted in his ruining no less than nine cravats before achieving one which was, though respectable, certainly not one of his more felicitous efforts. To the viscount’s infinite relief, the marquess had long since given up on his son and departed for the Royal Pavilion without him. Now the valise had been procured, and it remained only to collect his bride and set out hell-for-leather for the Border.
Alas, therein lay the problem. For in the few hours since he had parted from Miss Crump, his image of her had undergone a rapid and disturbing change. From the goddess of his idolatry, she had descended to the plane of mere humankind, and thence to a deuced managing female who not only suggested the sort of hasty marriage that all his acquaintance would denounce as shockingly bad
ton,
but had then taken it upon herself to dictate all the particulars of the elopement when any lady of sensibility would have been faint with mortification at the prospect of so improper a course of action.
Not, to be sure, that Sutcliffe wished for Miss Crump to faint; he would have quite enough on his hands just trying to elude his father’s wrath long enough to accomplish the three-day journey to Gretna, without adding the inconvenience of a vaporish female. But even though his father might well disown him for this night’s work, he was still an Inglewood, and the Inglewoods were men of honor. He had pledged himself to marry Miss Crump over the anvil at Gretna Green, and marry her he would. With new determination, he looked out the window as the carriage bore him ever closer to the brilliantly illuminated Royal Pavilion, although anyone observing his melancholy expression might have supposed his carriage to be a tumbril and his destination the guillotine.
* * * *
To the first-time visitor, the Royal Pavilion was truly an awe-inspiring sight. The exterior was a hodge-podge of minarets and onion domes in the Oriental style; the interior a conglomeration of crimson hangings with golden tassels, painted glass panels, gilt-edged mirrors, and winged dragons cavorting in
trompe l’oeil
skies. Polly, preoccupied with her rapidly approaching nuptials, hardly noticed these wonders, but Mr. Brundy was fully alive to the spectacle before him.
“Blimey!” he uttered, eyeing with distaste a dragon snarling down at the prince’s guests from the broad green leaves of a plantain tree painted on the domed ceiling.
“‘Blimey,’ indeed,” agreed Lady Helen, pleased to discover that her low-born husband was, in fact, a man of taste.
“Is it just me,” he wondered, studying the malevolent dragon overhead, “or does ‘e look a bit like Aubrey’s mama?”
“You are
not
going to make me laugh!” scolded Lady Helen, struggling mightily to hold back a smile. “If Prinny should speak to you, you must not disparage his Pavilion, for he is immensely proud of it. He oversaw the decoration himself.”
“I’ll try not to ‘old it against ‘im,” promised Mr. Brundy, and was rewarded with a glare from his adoring wife.
A short time later, a buzz of excitement marked the appearance of the Prince Regent and one of his brothers, His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence. The crowd parted before them like the waters of the Red Sea, forming a center aisle down which the royal duo might pass. With his brother bringing up the rear, the Prince made his ponderous way down the ranks, pausing to speak to the fortunate few and acknowledging the others with a genial nod. When Lady Helen sank into a deep curtsy at his approach, he took her hands in his own rather plump ones and helped her to rise.
“Ah, Lady Helen, a Radney no more!” he exclaimed with an exaggerated sigh. “On the day you were wed, every man in England mourned.”
“Every man but one, your ‘ighness,” put in Mr. Brundy.
“Your Highness, may I present my husband, Mr. Brundy?”
“So you’re the fellow who stole Lady Helen from under the noses of half the
ton,
eh?” asked the Prince, favoring Mr. Brundy with an appraising look.
“You’re too good. Your ‘ighness,” he said modestly, making his bow. “Most people would say as ‘ow I bought ‘er.”
As that was precisely the rumor that had reached the Prince’s ears, he was somewhat taken aback by this statement. Then, as shock gave way to mirth, he laughed aloud, leading several guests to wonder what Lady Helen’s weaver had said that Prinny found so amusing.