The Battling Bluestocking (25 page)

Suddenly Jessica realized that everyone she knew had been carefully polite to Lady Prodmore. But somehow her ladyship had deduced that they all despised her, which meant she was not so oblivious as Jessica had thought. Or perhaps the woman merely imagined slights. The current situation might just as easily have arisen out of the fact that Lady Prodmore herself believed she had no rightful place among the members of the
beau monde
.

Not that it mattered what motivated her, Jessica mused. Just the fact that she wanted to make life miserable for Lady Susan was enough. All that mattered now was finding someone, somewhere, who would help. Someone she could depend upon. Someone—preferably a large, broad-shouldered someone—who would understand that she, too, had need of attention and support through this crisis. Andrew was sympathetic. Surely, Lady Gordon—despite her own view of the matter—was also sympathetic. Even Lord Gordon, Jessica had to admit, had shown himself to be dependable in a crisis. But they were not enough. Not nearly enough.

Mr. Wychbold was clearly a competent man. He had also seemed to think there might be a way, despite the clear-cut nature of Lady Susan’s offense, to bring matters to a satisfactory end. And he had said, also, that Sir Reginald Basingstoke, whenever he spoke before the bench, could make apples appear to be oranges, or something to that effect. Even Cyril had seemed properly impressed that Sir Reginald would be taking Lady Susan’s case to court. But no amount of Mr. Wychbold’s confidence or belief in Sir Reginald’s talent was sufficient to keep Jessica from feeling anything but despondent as the carriage rolled on toward Hanover Square.

The house would be empty. One needn’t consider the servants. Even Mellin would be cold comfort, for she had lately proved to be something of a Cassandra, prophesying doom at every corner. Besides, servants simply weren’t like having a friend to discuss matters with. A friend would listen and not only hear the details of Lady Susan’s situation but also understand what Jessica was suffering as a result of that situation. He would be sympathetic, not just to her ladyship but to her anxious niece as well. He would offer needed comfort, a shoulder to lean upon, a hug.

Jessica’s eyes closed, and she let her body relax against the squabs as she imagined what it would be like to enjoy the warmth and comfort of a hug right then. Strong arms enfolding her against a broad chest. Not just any strong arms, of course, or any broad chest. The vision of Sir Brian floated in her mind’s eye: He smiled down at her, and the warmth of that smile sent a glow through her just as surely as though he had been sitting across from her in the carriage. She gave herself a tiny shake, but she didn’t open her eyes, and the image refused to disappear on its own. His dark brown eyes were crinkled at the corners, and there were corresponding lines etched beside his mouth, showing that he had made a practice, over the years, of smiling. There was a lock of dark blond hair that had tumbled over one eye, making her yearn to push it back into place. It was odd, she thought drowsily, that just thinking of the man so could send the familiar tingling warmth flowing through her body. She could even hear the sound of his voice in her head, actually hear it, although that was not so unusual, after all. She could make herself hear other voices when she wanted to remember someone clearly. Usually, she simply remembered a phrase they liked to use, like when Lord Gordon said, “Upon my word.” She could make herself hear his lordship’s voice easily, not that he was a person she generally wished to call to mind.

The difference now was that she didn’t need to remember any particular phrase in order to recall the sound of Sir Brian’s voice. She could imagine him saying anything she liked, and she could hear the gentle, deep voice speaking in the slow way he spoke naturally. It was almost eerie, and as she let her fantasies run wild, the things he began to say to her nearly curled her toes. For some moments her mind was completely taken up by the fantasies. During those moments she did not think once of Lady Susan. She merely leaned back with her eyes shut, letting the fantasy figure say and do whatever he liked, while a contented little smile played about her lips.

“Miss Jessica.” The voice was hushed. “Miss Jessica? Are you asleep, miss?”

Jessica’s eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright, experiencing a guilty feeling as though the young footman staring through the gloom into the coach might actually have been able to see what was going on in her mind. All the warmth in her body seemed to rush to her cheeks, and words stuck in her throat. But, reassured that she was now awake, the footman merely held out his hand to assist her from the carriage. She swallowed, placing her hand in his and stretching one neatly shod foot to the step, the other to the pavement. There was no need to say anything.

She took a deep breath, glad that the deepening twilight made it impossible for the footman to have any notion of her undoubtedly high color, then looked up toward the house. As she did, her despondency returned. There were lights in the windows, but they did not seem to welcome her. Instead they were like beacons, awaiting the return of the mistress of the house. Jessica almost wished she had a social engagement, just so that she would be able to take her mind off Lady Susan for a few hours. But of course that was out of the question, although Lord and Lady Gordon, she realized suddenly, must still be observing some social obligations, or Georgeanne would not have had the difficult meeting with Lady Jersey. But Jessica simply could not gad about while her aunt was languishing in jail. Instead, just as she had done the last few nights, she would face a solitary dinner and then retire to her own bedchamber, where she would attempt to concentrate upon at least one chapter of the Gothic romance she was reading. And then she would go to bed to toss and turn and worry until exhaustion claimed her.

With steps that faltered a little, she approached the door and stepped aside automatically to allow the young footman, who had followed her up the stone steps, to open it for her. Then Jessica walked inside and nodded to Bates as he hurried forward and gently took her pelisse from her.

“Good evening, Bates. How long before dinner will be served, please?”

“That is for you to say now, Miss Jessica, as I’ve told you,” he said with a little smile.

“I keep forgetting,” she admitted.

“Well, things ought to be improving right away now, miss,” he confided, his smile widening.

Her spirits lifted magically, for despite the fact that he so clearly meant to surprise her, or perhaps because of it, she had not the slightest doubt of his meaning.

“Where is he? Is he here?”

He gestured with his head. “Upstairs in the drawing room, Miss Jessica, and not a moment before he was wanted, I’d say.”

She only grinned her agreement of the statement before she snatched up her skirts and, without a thought for propriety, raced up the stairs and along the gallery to the open door of the drawing room.

Sir Brian was standing by the hearth, a glass of claret in his hand. He smiled when she appeared so precipitately upon the threshold, her magnificent breasts heaving, her hat askew, and tiny wisps of loosened hair curling about her lovely face.

“I have been informed that you wish to see me,” he said, then scarcely had time to place his glass safely upon the mantelshelf and brace himself before, with tears glistening on her lashes, she flung herself into his arms.

“Oh, Brian, you’re truly here at last,” she sobbed against his shoulder.

“Well, well, well,” murmured Sir Brian to the soft curls tickling his chin as he hugged her tightly.

S
IR BRIAN HELD JESSICA
close for some time without speaking, then removed the tipsy hat from her tousled hair and tossed it onto a nearby straight-legged Kent chair.

“My poor child,” he said then, gently, “you’ve been through a difficult time, have you not?” When she nodded against his shoulder, he gave her a gentle squeeze and set her back upon her heels, saying, “Let us sit down, and you may tell me about it. Andrew’s version was a trifle sketchy.”

“Where have you been?” she demanded instead as he led her to the green-striped settee between the tall windows.

“In Cornwall,” he replied, taking his seat beside her. “I shall tell you about it presently. But first, explain to me, if you please, why Lady Susan is residing at Bow Street and why nothing has yet been done to effect her release.”

Jessica settled back against the softness of plumped striped satin. “It’s that ridiculous Habeas Corpus,” she said with a sigh.

“There is nothing ridiculous about the Habeas Corpus Act,” Sir Brian replied, turning slightly and leaning back into the side curve of the settee. He crossed his legs with the right ankle resting upon his left knee, laid his left arm casually along the back of the settee, then shifted his weight more comfortably, looking into her eyes in such a way as to make her feel a trifle giddy. “If you are referring to the suspension of the act, however, I must agree with you. I collect then that you have tried and failed to obtain her release.”

“Well, Mr. Lionel Wychbold, in whom Cyril seems to repose a good deal of confidence, has attempted all manner of things, I believe, but Aunt Susan is still in that dreadful place, and oh, sir, there is a chance they may remove her to Bridewell!”

“That must not be allowed,” he said firmly.

“Mr. Wilberforce would no doubt disagree with you,” she told him bitterly, whereupon he demanded to know what the devil Mr. Wilberforce had to do with the matter. Jessica explained in the same bitter tone, “The secretary of the Africa Institute told Andrew that the precious Institute must not be involved in the matter. On account of all the bad publicity they received during the Hatchard affair, you know. So Andrew went to see Mr. Wilberforce.”

“Did he, indeed?” Sir Brian seemed properly impressed.

Jessica sighed. “He did, but it was to no avail. Mr. Wilberforce actually said Aunt Susan would do the abolitionist cause more good locked up than if she were free. He would do nothing to help, either.”

“And Grosvenor? Did Andrew then beard the duke in his den?”

“No, for he is out of town and his servants say they do not know where he has gone. Andrew says your servants often do the same.”

“They do,” Sir Brian admitted. “As does the highly trained hall porter at my club whenever I request such prevarication from him. ’Tis a time-honored tradition amongst those of us who would enjoy the occasional odd moment of privacy. But Grosvenor should know of this business as soon as possible. With matters of law suffering the absurd state of disorder our august legislators have managed to create, the best possible recourse in an instance such as this one is a weighty dose of political and financial influence. And the worthy duke wields a good deal of both. As does old Potterby. Odd that he has done nothing.”

“The general? We never thought to inform him, and as yet, thankfully, there has been very little in the papers.”

“Nevertheless, Potterby enjoys the dubious distinction of membership in the Regent’s set, where the mainstay of life is petty gossip. And whether or not the papers have made a nine-day wonder of your aunt’s affair, I should certainly imagine the details have been bruited about town by now.”

“Indeed, they have. Poor Georgie has already suffered several cuts direct and a most annoying interview with Lady Jersey.”

“Silence prodded your sister for the facts of the case, did she?”

“Yes, and she is the most unconscionable gossip. I know she is well thought of, but she can be a dreadful nuisance. As for the general,” Jessica added, “if he is with the Regent, then he is at Brighton, for the Carlton House set left town a day or so after you did.”

“Well, never mind, my dear. I am persuaded we shall find a way out of all this business. Who has Wychbold got to speak for your aunt before the King’s Bench?”

“A barrister named Sir Reginald Basingstoke.”

“Excellent. I know him well. That man can run rings around anyone who speaks for the prosecution. Why, I’ve seen him make—”

“Apples appear to be oranges,” Jessica interjected, smiling for the first time since she had begun explaining matters to him. “I know. Mr. Wychbold and Cyril have said the same thing.”

Sir Brian grinned. “It’s perfectly true, nonetheless. If anyone can get her off, he can. So you needn’t worry anymore.”

She nodded, realizing that she already felt better. It was odd, she mused, gazing at him, how his mere presence relaxed her and made her feel as though there were truly nothing further to bother her head about. Lady Susan was still languishing at Bow Street, and all he had said was that she mustn’t be allowed to remain there. He had offered no solution to the problem, yet Jessica had faith that he would set things right again, that she could depend upon him entirely. It was a most unusual sensation for one who had been accustomed to depending only upon herself, but she was rapidly discovering the sensation to be a comforting one.

“Shall I tell you now what took me to Cornwall?” he asked gently.

Despite the gentleness of his tone, she thought he was looking rather smug, and her curiosity was piqued. “If you please, sir,” she said. “You were gone a very long time.”

“I have been to Woodbury Manor.”

Jessica knitted her brow. “Is the name supposed to mean something to me? I fear it does not sound familiar.”

“Not to you, perhaps, but it may strike a familiar chord in young Jeremy’s cockloft.”

“Merciful heavens, have you found his family, then? Is Jeremy’s surname Woodbury?”

“No, not Woodbury. His surname is Ashwater, but he is the second son of Viscount Woodbury.”

Jessica stared at him as though he had accomplished something magical. “How? That is, how did you find them? We inserted advertisements in every paper we could think of, but there hasn’t been the whisper of a response.”

“Woodbury must not have seen it,” Sir Brian replied. “Can’t say I did myself. I didn’t do anything truly spectacular, however. It was the lad’s constant reference to familiar objects that should not have been in the least familiar to a sweep’s boy. Saw some of it myself, you know, and then Lady Susan mentioned at the de Lieven affair that there had been other incidents. It was pretty clear that your Jeremy had had experiences that were a deal above the touch of a back-slum climbing boy. Then, there was the name Jeremy itself. That struck a familiar note, but it took me a day or two to remember why it did. It was while I was mulling over something someone had said to me about the exploitation of young children in mines that it came to me.”