The Notorious Lord Havergal (8 page)

“And pork for Mr. Norton. Now for dessert, perhaps that peach cake with cream?”

“We ate the last of the peach preserves when your uncle was here last week.”

“Pity.”

“I can substitute apples.”

“Oh not
apples,
Cook. I want something
special."

“I’ll have a look at my book and come up with something grand enough for a duke’s tooth, never fear.”

“Make sure you don’t burn it. The gammon at breakfast was wretched.” Cook gave a mutinous look. “I expect you have a touch of whatever is ailing all the servants,” Lettie said forgivingly. “You do look a little flushed, Mrs. Siddons.”

Her cook made no reply to this but just rose silently and left, feeling as guilty as sin. It was that half bottle Cuttle had left behind the night before that had done the mischief. Siddons was dead set against her drinking. She only meant to taste it, but it was so good, and she was hot and tired from making her bread. At least the mistress was in the dark about it—and Siddons would never give her away.

At ten o’clock Miss FitzSimmons arrived home, her bonnet askew, her hair flying out from under it, her cheeks pink, and her smile as broad as the sofa.

“It is incredible, Lettie. Sixteen miles an hour! I felt I was
flying.
We passed Mr. Smallbone and nearly bowled him off the road, but Havergal is such an excellent fiddler that he squeaked us past unharmed. Bundle up, for the wind nearly carries you away.”

“Good gracious, Violet! You’re all blown to pieces.”

“So exhilarating! There is nothing like it. Havergal is waiting out front.”

“Havergal? You sound very familiar.”

“He asked me to stop calling him Lord Havergal. And he called me Violet,” she confessed. It was hard to tell, but Lettie thought she was blushing—and well she might.

“I am surprised at you, Violet. No, I am
more
than surprised. I am shocked. You have known Mr. Norton ten years and have never called him Ned. You scarcely know Lord Havergal.”

“London manners,” Violet said offhandedly. “We do not wish to appear too provincial.”

“What is truly provincial is a belief that London is the top of the world—and an eagerness to ape London manners,” she added tartly.

Yet as Lettie lifted her plain round bonnet to put on, she wished it were a smarter, more London-looking bonnet. She tied the ribbons tightly under her chin and went out. This was her first view of Havergal’s dashing curricle. It gleamed golden yellow in the sun, accoutred with much gleaming silver. The frisky grays harnessed up to it appeared perfectly fresh. They pawed the ground in their eagerness to be off. It occurred to Lettie that the seat was very high off the ground and very insecurely guarded. A railing only eight inches high was all that held the passenger in her seat. Even getting into that high seat promised some difficulty.

Havergal leapt down from his perch and came to her assistance. The marauding wind that had undone Violet’s coiffure left Havergal’s untouched. No wisps of hair escaped the curled beaver, set at a jaunty angle on his head. His face was ruddy, but his complexion was customarily high.

“It’s not as treacherous as it looks,” he smiled, seeing her consternation. “Just put one foot here,” he continued, indicating a metal disk that served as a toehold.

He steadied her with an arm around her waist as she ascended. It was not a flirtatious gesture. No unnecessary pressure was applied, nor did the hand linger, but Lettie was aware of the latent strength in the arm that protected her. When she was safely ensconced, Havergal lifted his head and smiled. She felt a tug of attraction toward that winning smile.

“It’s quite comfortable really,” she admitted.

He vaulted up to the seat beside her and took the reins. “You sound surprised, Miss Beddoes. Did you think I would submit you to any danger?”

“Not purposely,” she allowed.

He gave the team the office to be off. Lettie’s neck jerked back at the unexpected speed of their takeoff. As the team continued at a fast, though steady, pace through the park toward the main road, she settled down to a rather nervous enjoyment of the sensation. Riding in an open curricle was a completely different sensation from rattling along at seven or eight miles an hour in her own lumbering carriage. The sun seemed brighter, the scenery greener, and the whole experience much more exciting. She felt like a goddess, sitting high on her throne, looking down on mere mortals below.

They were fast approaching the main road, and Havergal wanted to steer her away from Ashford. He was by no means certain Crymont would have sent the girls home yet. They had come from London to Ashford yesterday. Certainly they had remained overnight, and if they left without touring the shops, it was more than he dared to count on.

“I took Miss FitzSimmons to Kingsnorth,” he said. “Shall we go that way? The drive is pretty.”

“You forget, Lord Havergal. You were to take me to Ashford to purchase new gloves.”

Her reply left little room for maneuvering. His heart sank. “There was a very pretty shop at Kingsnorth.”

“Not so good as Mercer’s, in Ashford. I have seen the gloves I want to buy. I shan’t keep you dawdling about the rows of buttons and pins for an hour, if that is what you fear,” she replied, still in good humor.

He risked one more putting-off sally. “Why don’t we drive west, toward Tonbridge? I’ve never been that way.”

“There is virtually nothing on that road till you reach Tonbridge,” she pointed out.

“Let us go to Tonbridge.”

“When we are driving all the way to Canterbury this afternoon? You are fond of driving, Lord Havergal. Much fonder than I. Ashford will be far enough. You turn right here,” she said as they reached the main road.

He had no choice but to do as she asked. He did not give up entirely, however. It was still three miles to Ashford. He would discover some diversion along the way. At every byway he slowed down and inquired what lay down that road.

“Only Norton’s farm,” she replied the first time. Another time it was “The local abattoir. I cannot believe you would want to go there.” When he inquired a third time, Lettie found it strange. “Do you have some particular aversion to being seen with me in Ashford, sir?” she asked quite briskly.

Her interpretation of his reluctance threw him off balance. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said in confusion. “What aversion could I possibly have to being seen in your company?”

“I don’t know either, unless it is this horrid bonnet, for my character is excellent, I promise you.” She carefully avoided any mention of her advanced years.

“Better than mine, certainly,” he returned with a teasing smile. “It is
your
reputation I fear for, you see, being seen on the strut with that wastrel, Havergal. That is what my friends call me, Havergal. I wish you would do the same.” He lifted his blue eyes and examined her fleetingly. “And the bonnet, by the by, is charming.”

After that bit of innocent flirtation, Lettie was much inclined to do as he suggested and dispense with the “Lord,” but as she had delivered Violet a lecture, she felt some demur was necessary. “We are hardly more than acquaintances,” she pointed out.

“We are connections through Horace’s marriage to your—what was she—cousin?”

“Yes, but--"

“And you are my guardian. Now surely a charge may call his guardian by her Christian name when he is shamelessly battening himself on her. You cannot call on propriety, Miss Beddoes. We have been carrying on a most improper, clandestine correspondence for a twelvemonth. It is high time we stop
lording
and missing each other. I shan’t ‘miss’ you till I leave,” he joked. “That is a pun, ma’am. Are you not going to remind me of Dennis’s excellent setdown: A man who could make so vile a pun would not hesitate to pick a man’s pocket.’ Come now, show me your claws.”

“By deriding your own conversation, you leave me nothing to say.”

He turned a jeering smile in her direction. “You could say I might call you Lettie.”

“Very well then. You may call me Lettie,” she said primly.

He acknowledged it with a gallant bow and a smile. His eyes soon veered left to another road and another possibility of reprieve. “Don’t even think it,” she said. “An extremely bizarre hermit lives in a cave down that road. He shoots anyone who trespasses.”

“I don’t see any signs posted.”

“You’ll feel the bullets if you dare to enter.”

To offer any further objections to Ashford would only confirm her suspicions, so Havergal steeled himself for the visit. He’d whisk her in and out of the shop as quickly as possible and pray they didn’t meet Crymont and his friends.

“You can stable your rig at the Royal Oak,” she mentioned when they entered the town.

His heart sank to his boots. “I’ll just leave it at the curb.”

“We might bump into Crymont at the inn,” she tempted.

He controlled his shiver and replied, “You said you would not be long.”

“I thought you might like to stroll down High Street. There is a church with a rather fine perpendicular tower toward the end of the street. It has some interesting monuments and brasses. Or perhaps you are not interested in churches?”

“One cathedral a day is usually enough for me,” he said, reminding her of the trip to Canterbury.

Canterbury was not Ashford. No one she knew would see her with Havergal there. She sighed and pointed out the drapery shop a block away.

Havergal scanned the street. It was not so very busy at an early hour in the morning. He saw at a glance that Crymont was not about and decided to risk the stroll to please her, but he dare not stable his rig at the Royal Oak. He tossed a street urchin a coin to hold his team while they entered the shop. The purchase of the gloves took only minutes, as she had promised. What took so much time was being presented to her friends. Miss Beddoes seemed to know every soul in the shop, presented them all to him, and did it with a peculiarly proprietary air.

Havergal was not a vain man, but it eventually occurred to him that she was showing off her exhibit. She wanted her friends to see she had a young lord, a bachelor, staying with her. It was her friends who slyly inquired for Lady Havergal, and Miss Beddoes was not slow to enlighten them of his marital status. Some corner of her cast-iron mind had taken note of the fact that he was eligible, then. Perhaps she was not so unflirtable as he thought.

When he had done the pretty with half a dozen ladies, they went back outside. A quick perusal of the street told him Crymont was still not about. He allowed himself to be taken to admire the church. Knowing Crymont would never venture inside a church, he felt safe to linger there, admiring the tombs and brasses. After a lengthy perusal, it was Lettie who suggested they should leave.

“For we have to drive home, have lunch, change, and get to Canterbury. Pretty hard trotting for one day.”

Havergal laughed, taking it for a joke. “And that still leaves us the evening,” he said. “You are forgetting the duke is taking us to dinner.”

“Forget it?” she asked in astonishment. “No indeed, that is the best part! I was just going over the day’s activities.”

“Dinner with a duke is better than visiting an archbishop? I am shocked, Lettie. Your morality is slipping,” he said, and laughed—right in church.

It was an infectious laugh. Or perhaps it was the busy rush of new and unusual activities that lent a special charm to that morning. Or even his using her first name so casually, as if they were old friends.

“Shocking, is it not?” she agreed. “But I have met a few archbishops before. Crymont is my first duke.”

He took her arm and escorted her back to the curricle. “We lesser peers, of course, are not worth mentioning,” he said with an expression of mock abuse. “No, it is not necessary to apologize, Lettie. You would not be in alt to meet a vicar or curate, and you are not impressed to be dining with a viscount—and a poor wasted viscount with his pockets to let besides.”

“Quite so, especially when said viscount is only here with a view to conning me into padding out those pockets.”

Lettie was at ease with the curricle now. She put her foot on the mounting disc and felt less strange when Havergal put his arm around her.

“Conning? That is a hard word, ma’am. It suggests deceit. Begging is more like it.”

“Come now, Havergal. Admit you want the blunt to pay off your gambling debts.”

“Will it change your mind?”

“Certainly. My opinion of you would be better if you at least told the truth.”

“But would you forward me the money?”

“No.”

“So much for that then. I want to improve my hunting box. I
do
want to, you know, so it is not precisely a lie. It is just that I don’t plan to do so at this time, with this money.”

“That is the merest sophistry, sir. You misled me.”

He gave her a resigned look and shook his head. “No, I only tried to. You’re too clever by half,
Mr.
Beddoes. As I have confessed my misdemeanor, won’t you admit you led me astray there on purpose?”

“I will allow that I let you lead yourself astray.”

“Why?” he asked, truly curious.

“I feared you might dislike having a lady control you.”

“That is nothing new for me,” he replied with a quizzing laugh. “How’s the gout, L.A.?” he asked, and jiggled the reins for the horses to take off
.
Accustomed to the suddenness of their start, Lettie prepared herself and saved her neck a rude jolt.

When he had set a steady pace, Lettie pursued the topic. “The thing is, Havergal, I cannot forward you the thousand without eating into your capital, and I promised Horace I would not do that. That is precisely why he appointed me, to protect the money for you. There is not yet a thousand pounds of interest accrued, you see,” she said, as though explaining it to an imbecile.

“I know,” he said hastily. “I do have
some
acquaintance with money management, you know.”

“Yes, a fleeting acquaintance, but a gentleman in your position ought to be well and thoroughly grounded. You will have all your father’s money and estates to manage one day. It would be criminal to run through them as you do through lesser sums.”