Chapter Fifteen
Lady Catherine’s letter made Bertie uncomfortable, but he couldn’t have said why. He did not think much of Cumberwell’s efforts. Unless the Gentleman Smuggler set up shop somewhere else, there wasn’t much hope of catching him in the act of selling liquor. Perhaps the rogue was even someone she knew from Somerset. The Dorset crew had said he wasn’t a local man. He could very well be someone she had known all her life. But all of that was not the reason her letter disturbed him.
It was days before his discomfort worked its way to the surface and formed itself into one word: Cumberwell. He went all the way to Somerset to tell her he still didn’t know the identity of the smuggler. Was he still attached to Lady Catherine despite his engagement to her friend? Would she take him back if given the opportunity? Knowing how miserable his defection had made her, Bertie couldn’t help but wonder.
At least he could answer her question about their first meeting. He smiled at the recollection. She had fairly bowled him over. But he wouldn’t tell her that, exactly. He couldn’t afford to say anything that would make her hesitant about their friendship. Very aware of his inferior status in her brother’s eyes, he wanted to stay in her life any way he could.
And was it just a friendship? He was still uncertain on that point.
Heyford Abbey
Lower Heyford, Oxfordshire
Lady Catherine,
The smuggler obviously thinks you are a danger to him, even though you say you only heard his voice. Perhaps he is someone you know well. Possibly someone you have known all your life. I pray you will be safe in Somerset.
By now it must be nearly time for your ball. I heard from Viscount Wellingham that they are going to be in attendance. I am very glad you invited them. Penelope Wellingham is an interesting lady. She very nearly did not marry Beau because she did not think London society would suit her or she it. She much prefers the country.
Which do you prefer? I find I like the country most of the year, but I enjoy London in the Season when my friends are there. I hope I can count you as one of them now.
Why did I look startled when I met you there on the beach? To answer your question: No, I was not expecting to meet anyone else. But I certainly was not prepared to meet you. That day you could have been the heroine in one of your Gothic fantasies. To me, your eyes were tragic, your face—framed by your cloak—mysterious. If I was startled, it was because you pulled me out of my everyday world into a romance, where unexpected things happen. The sea could have carried me away to America, the cliff could have fallen upon us, or fairies could have dwelt in the cave.
I have been told that I express myself much differently in letters than I do in speech. I am certain that is true, but I do not know the reason for it.
Yours most truly,
Sir B.
Bertie sent his letter before he could reflect that it was too transparent. He regretted it after it was in the post. Had he put himself forward overmuch?
In order to stop thinking about what he had said, he helped Warrie set up a battlefield on the nursery floor. The boy was keen to be a soldier, but as he was the heir to his father’s title, that wouldn’t be possible. His estate was now under the care of his steward and his home now let and waiting for him. Bertie, his guardian, had encouraged the lad to become a military historian.
His sister had convinced Bertie to put off sending him away to school until he was twelve. He respected Marianne’s wishes, as Warrie’s presence raised her spirits, which were liable to be low since her husband’s death.
Lord had been an explorer, so his son’s hankering for adventure did not surprise Bertie. He also knew him to be a thoughtful lad who was sincerely attached to his twin. It would be a hard day for Gweet when Warrie left for school.
* * *
“Uncle Bertie, will you teach me to dance?” Gweet asked him. He was busy cataloging a pair of Egyptian bracelets from Ian’s collection destined for the British Museum but was happy for the interruption.
“Won’t hurt me to stir myself,” he said. “Ask your mother if she can play for us, and find your brother. I will teach you a reel.”
He and Marianne spent an hour teaching the twins their first dance.
His sister said, “Let us show them the waltz, Bertie. I have not waltzed since Ian’s death.”
As they stood up together and counted out the measures, Bertie found himself imagining that he was holding Lady Catherine in his arms. He guessed that she would be a graceful, lively partner—light as down and as soft.
The idea that had been simmering in the back of his mind bobbed to the surface.
“Marianne, should you like to accompany me to a ball?”
“A ball? I was not aware there was to be a ball in the neighborhood.”
Hoping he sounded offhand, he told her, “My friend, Lady Catherine Redmayne, is putting on a ball in Somerset. I shall write to Beau and Penelope. They are invited, and I am certain they shall be glad to have us to stay for a few days.”
“Oh, may we come?” asked Gweet, her brown eyes shining.
Bertie looked at Marianne, an eyebrow raised. She nodded briefly.
“If you are on your best behavior. It’s a long carriage ride—a couple of days. And it will be cold,” warned Bertie. “You must know that you are far too young for the ball. You must wait for your come out when you are eighteen.”
Gweet made a face. “It does not sound like it would be much fun, after all. What do you think, Warrie?”
“I think I would rather stay at home. The Wellinghams have no children. Remember the last time we stayed with them? Boring,” Warrie said.
Bertie made arrangements by letter with the Wellinghams, who replied that they were looking forward to hosting them and attending the ball together.
He wrote: It is by way of being a surprise. I would appreciate it if you did not warn Lady Catherine.
With all his preparations made, Bertie began to be very impatient to see the lady again.
* * *
Marianne and Bertie arrived at Somerset Vale in high spirits. Bertie’s sister had not been away from Oxfordshire for over a year and said she was very glad to see new people and new scenery.
Though his sister had known Beau for years, Bertie introduced Marianne to Lady Wellingham for the first time.
“I have heard so much about you from Bertie,” his sister said. “Is it true that you rode all the way from Northamptonshire to London to save Beau from death?”
Their hostess laughed. “That is a bit of an exaggeration. I did nurse him back to health. A wretched French spy had slashed his arm, and he lost quite a bit of blood.”
Beau put his arm around his wife and clasped her to his side. “She is my good angel.”
“Watch out, Marianne. An angel she may be, but she is also a bit of a cardsharp,” Bertie warned her.
They had an excellent dinner of roast beef and stuffed game hens, after which he and Beau had a private conversation over their port.
“Had word on the Gentleman Smuggler,” Bertie said. “Cumberwell says the men in Dorset claim he wears a disguise and goes by Smith. They divine, however, that he is a London gentleman. I surmise that Lady Catherine is in danger because he may be someone familiar to her.”
“Probably some dashed loose screw,” said Beau. “I’m surprised Cumberwell took the time to write to you. He’s not known for cooperation with the public.”
“Wasn’t me he told. It was Lady Catherine.” Bertie swirled the port in his glass. “I think there must be something loose in Cumberwell’s brainbox. I can’t imagine him preferring a timid gel like Sybil Anderson.”
“Mayhap he doesn’t like a lady who thinks too much,” said Beau with a chuckle. “On the other hand, I’ve never known you to put yourself to so much trouble over a lady.”
“It will probably come to nothing,” Bertie said. “Redmayne doesn’t like me.”
“More the fool, he. Her father is different—not the least toplofty in spite of his title. But he’s become a bit of a recluse, so I don’t know that he’ll appear at the ball.”
After they rejoined the ladies, Penelope proposed a rubber of whist.
“Only if you’ll partner me,” said Bertie. “I’m past tired of losing to you and Wellingham.”
The following morning, Bertie woke with keen anticipation of the night’s entertainment. He couldn’t wait not only to see Lady Catherine but to hold her in his arms during a waltz. But there was the day to be gotten through first. Beau took him shooting grouse.
Between shots, Bertie asked, “Any advice on how to handle Redmayne?”
“Man’s a snob,” Beau said, taking a shot. “No hope for him. You’ll want to make yourself known to the marquess.”
“And if he’s not present?”
“Bad luck.”
Bertie grimaced and resumed shooting.
* * *
Westbury Castle at night was a sight to behold. Huge torches lit the drawbridge, which carried them over the moat. Once they reached the castle’s outer wall, torches lit the massive coat of arms hanging over the front gate. Bertie began to wonder at Lady Catherine’s ever speaking to him at all and to question his appearing without a formal invitation.
The front hall seemed like something out of a storybook with its coats of armor and display of weaponry. The House of Westbury had obviously participated in wars going back hundreds of years. Footmen lined their way up a gilded staircase to a vast ballroom hung with gold fabric. Though it was the middle of winter, the room held stands of orchids and other exotic flowers Bertie guessed had their origins in tropical climes. These must be products of the famous succession houses.
He brought his hand up to make certain his neckcloth was in place. There stood Lady Catherine next to her brother in the receiving line. Her father was not to be seen.
“Buck up,” Beau whispered in his ear. “She favors you. That counts for something.”
Indeed, upon spotting Bertie, Lady Catherine gave a brilliant smile. “Sir Bertie!” she said. “What a wonderful surprise!”
“I’ve come to claim a waltz,” he said.
“I have the second one free,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
Redmayne barely nodded. “Backman. Didn’t know you were on the guest list.”
“My invitation was informal,” he said. “Lord Redmayne and Lady Catherine, may I present my sister, Lady Deveridge? Marianne, Lady Catherine Redmayne and her brother, Lord Robert Redmayne.”
Bertie’s sister was a beautiful woman with white-blonde hair, china-blue eyes, and a complexion of milk and roses. Bertie watched with inner amusement as Redmayne was clearly bowled over. “Any relation to Lord Ian Deveridge?” he asked.
“He was my husband,” she said softly, a blush rising to her cheeks.
Redmayne bowed over her hand. “Lady Deveridge, I am sorry for your loss. I was saddened to hear of your husband’s death. Capital explorer.”
Marianne bowed her head. “You are very kind, your lordship.”
After the receiving line was behind them, Bertie said to his sister in a low voice, “Bringing you was a stroke of genius. You tamed the bear. He doesn’t like me.”
“Anything I can do to help!” she said with a laugh.
“You can dance with me,” he said. He really was fond of his sister, and it was good to see her enjoying herself.
He recognized a few people from the ballrooms in London, but most were unknown to him. Beau made a few introductions, but though Bertie feigned interest, he was counting the minutes until his waltz with Lady Catherine.
At last the moment arrived. The string quartet struck up their second waltz. His chosen lady’s smile was radiant. As Bertie took her in his arms, she felt more than natural there. She belonged. He detected the scent of gardenias.
“Did you really think I was of the supernatural when you first saw me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “A troubled spirit.”
“You have surprised me, Sir Bertie, I must say. I had no idea you were so poetic. I am saving your letters for posterity.”
“You inspire me. Far beyond my station.”
“Your station is not low, Sir Bertie.”
Her words surprised him. “I’m afraid that’s not what your brother thinks.”
“He thinks you aspire to marry me.” She laughed. “Do not worry about him.”
Bertie’s spirits took a dive. Had he misread her fondness for him? Was she merely a flirt? Was she only using his attentions to prop up her self-consequence that had suffered so much when Cumberwell proved faithless?
He stiffened. Cumberwell had just entered the room. Surely she had not invited him?
“What is it?” asked his partner.
“Nothing,” he said. All ability to make polite conversation flew from his brain.
“Tell me more about the twins. I get the impression that your niece has you wrapped around her finger.”
“Possibly. The little thing enchants me. I find that children take a fresh view of the world. It is contagious.”
“I hope you brought them to Somerset. I long to meet them.”
“Gweet was put off that she could not come to the ball. They stayed home.”
For a moment, they danced in silence. “You have surprised me again, Sir Bertie. You are a very competent dancer.”
“Merely competent?” he asked.
“More than competent,” she said. “Inspiring.”
Could he take anything she said at face value? “Ah, your brother dances with my sister,” he said.
“He has an eye for a beautiful woman.”
“He is not married?”
“No. He’s a widower. But he still needs an heir.”
Cumberwell was watching their every move. Bertie had managed to steer the dance so she did not see him, but the waltz being the waltz, he could not do so indefinitely.
“You are looking grim,” she said. Just then, she spotted her former fiancé. Her eyes grew large. “He is here!”
He was dismayed at the shock on her face.
“The effrontery!” she exclaimed. “Robert will probably shoot him.”
“Your brother does not like him?”
“He does not like the insult his lordship dealt to our family name.”
From that point on, Lady Catherine was preoccupied. Bertie, never a skilled conversationalist, did not try to pry her away from her thoughts.
When the waltz ended, she said, “I must speak with my brother.” In a moment, she had vanished.
He made his way to the cardroom, frustration churning inside him. Had he misread her altogether? Women! Who could tell what they were thinking?
After a short hand of piquet, his curiosity spurred him to go back to the ballroom. He was just in time to see Lady Catherine commencing to waltz with Lord William. Bertie’s heart sank to his shoes. He couldn’t read the expression on her face, but the whole room was abuzz. He should never have come.
Walking out onto the terrace, he lit a cigar. How much of a fool had he made of himself? From her conversation—“he thinks you aspire to marry me”—it now appeared that she had never taken him seriously as a suitor. She probably thought he knew that and thought that he would never even presume such a thing. It was also plain that she was still powerfully affected by Cumberwell.
And why should she not be? Just weeks ago, she had been planning her marriage to him! He was her equal in rank and fortune. He was an Adonis.
Beau found him sunk in gloom, pacing the terrace.
“Chin up, old boy.”
“I have presumed too far beyond my lowly station,” Bertie said with bitterness.
His friend patted him on the back. “It won’t do any good for you to be found out here sulking. And it’s not like you. Come in and play whist with us. Penelope asked me to find you. She rather favors you as a partner.”