A Banbury Tale (23 page)

“And are you quiet and regular in your habits?” inquired the Comte with interest. “These are qualities that I insist upon in my servants.”

Motley restrained a strong desire to inform the Comte that, since she was not desirous of seeking a place in his household, her habits were none of his concern. “I believe I have given satisfaction, sir.”

“No, Motley, you have not, but I shall let that pass, for the moment. What have you to tell me about my niece? I do not scruple to tell you that I have little interest in the chit. She is prodigiously like her father, and I have washed my hands of him.”

“You are hard, sir!” The words were out before Motley could stop them but, having been so brash, she had no choice but to continue. “I make no excuses for her father, indeed I could not, but Maddy is a good girl and it would be heartless of you to abandon her.”

“I apprehend,” commented the Comte in bored tones, “that nothing will serve the purpose but that you must tell me the whole. Very well: proceed.”

Motley perceived few traces of affection in this man for the younger brother and infant sister whom he had managed to rescue from the terrible fate reserved for the aristocracy during the troubles in France, or for their offspring. She recalled that Emile had also rescued the family fortune, though he had been powerless to prevent the loss of the ancestral lands. But the Comte was correct: she had no choice but to tell him the whole. The Comte would never be satisfied with less.

When she had finished, Emile remained silent, a frown upon his brow. “You do see,” Motley inquired, “why I have applied to you?”

“I do.” The Comte rose, but there was no softening in his expression. “You wish me to provide my niece with a dowry, so that she may marry advantageously. Very well, I will do so, on the condition that she tells this hypothetical husband of her treachery.” Motley winced. “Would you call it otherwise?” the Comte inquired. “She has deliberately professed to be something that she is not. She has passed herself off as a young lady of considerable fortune when, in truth, she is nearly penniless.”

“It was done at her father’s prompting,” Motley pointed out humbly. The Comte’s frown deepened.

“Yes. She, at least, has some excuse. I have always deprecated Claude’s rubbishing ways. Claude played fast and loose with his patrimony, which is precisely why I let it be known that young Kenelm is my heir.”

Something in the phrasing of this speech caught Motley’s attention. “Good God!” she cried. “Do you mean that Kenelm is
not
your heir?”

“I believe. Motley,” said the Comte, “that I shall take you into my confidence. Kenelm is a favorite of mine, but has no more desire for my fortune than I have to bestow it upon him. I had thought that, were Claude to be deprived of his expectations, he might be inspired to behave less like a ne’er-do-well and more like a gentleman. It seems that I was wrong.”

Motley was rendered speechless by this information. The Comte rose, and she noticed for the first time that he walked with the aid of a cane. “A riding accident,” explained Emile, noting her interest. “The bone was improperly set. You must not concern yourself, however. It does not interfere with my prowess in the, er, hunting field.” Furious with herself. Motley cursed her flaming cheeks. Satisfied, the Comte continued. “I am not pleased, to learn of these mishaps that plague Kenelm, and will take steps to learn who is behind them. Does that satisfy you?”

“It does.” Motley rose to take her leave. “You have been more than generous, and I feel that I may safely leave matters in your hands.”

“No,” retorted the Comte. “You may not.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You may not,” repeated the Comte patiently, “leave.” For a startled moment. Motley wondered if she was to be held prisoner. She sank back into her chair. “I am not convinced that you are the proper person to have charge of my niece.”

“Oh!” Motley understood. “You mean that it was reprehensible of me to visit a bachelor’s establishment? That is true, sir, but consider. I wished no one to know of my destination.”

“Few young women,” retorted Emile, “who undertook such an excursion would want their destination known. I am curious—why do you assume that mine is, as you call it, a bachelor’s establishment?”

“Did you not know that you are much discussed by your neighbors?” Motley countered. “Since you will not see them, they must be content with discussing you.”

“A quelling set-down,” the Comte mused, “but beside the point. It is not this visit that renders you ineligible.”

Motley revised her opinion of the Comte. There was laughter in this man, but it was of the sort that would be directed at others, and never at himself. “So you knew.”

“From the moment I set eyes on you.” The Comte surveyed her. “Mine is the melancholy satisfaction of witnessing the decline of one of the most angelic faces and elegant figures that ever graced a drawing room or enlivened a rout into a rather dowdy-looking governess.” Motley bit her lip. “Come here, Damian.”

Motley rose. She felt like the helpless victim of a predatory animal. The Comte’s eyes were fixed upon her face as he expertly removed the pins that restrained the coils of her heavy hair. “A governess,” he repeated, “ranked with the superior servants, but a servant nonetheless.” His tone was harsh. “But it is the life you chose. Tell me, when did you go to my sister-in-law? And why did you change your name?”

“You are cruel, Emile.” But he would not let her move away.

“Yes,” he agreed, “but you will answer my questions. The truth, Damian. I think you have not always told me that.”

Motley closed her eyes. “I lost my place with Lady Farthingale, and Lady Henrietta, who had a kindness for me, took me in. We thought it would be wiser if I abandoned my old name.”

“With my attentions, I made you notorious? Poor Damian.” The Comte’s tone conveyed no great sympathy. “You very effectively thwarted my attempts to find you. Damian Darlington very effectively disappeared. And Lady Farthingale?”

Motley gazed upon her tormentor. “I cannot blame her for placing the worst possible construction on our relationship. A French Comte and a governess? I told you that it would not do.”

“You told me,” remarked the Comte, “that you did not love me, which is quite another thing. My dear, had you been a creature from the streets, I would still wish to marry you.”

For the second time in the space of an hour, Motley was deprived of speech. The Comte, perhaps, took unfair advantage, for the next thing Motley knew she was safely enclosed in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, listening to words of incredible tenderness. “Emile,” she murmured, “this surpasses all belief.”

“Nonsense,” replied the Comte. “You have no choice but to marry me now, Damian, for in coming here you have hopelessly compromised yourself. Think how wretched you would be if this indiscretion were to be babbled on every tongue.”

“There is Maddy to consider,” offered Motley weakly.

“The future of my graceless niece,” replied the Comte in a tone that brooked no opposition, “must be my concern.”

* * * *

Maddy stared impatiently through her bedroom window. Even the immaculate grandeur of the vast grounds that surrounded the Hall had no power to distract her. The faintness that she had pleaded as an excuse to avoid the others was mere pretense; Maddy sought to perfect a scheme. The thought of what the Earl might do, were he to catch her in the act of returning the purloined key to his room, gave her little pause. Such a confrontation would be welcome: Wilmington was maddeningly non-committal. Now that Lionel had voiced his opinion, Maddy was all the more determined to bring Micah to heel. She did not stop to wonder why Lionel’s harsh words weighed so heavily on her.

Fortunately, Motley, that keen-eyed guardian, was in the midst of a fit of abstraction so severe that she was apt to walk away in the middle of a conversation and to ignore the sound of her own name. Maddy had made so bold as to query her one-time governess concerning the matters that preoccupied her, but had received only a vague smile in return. Nor was Motley inclined to explain the reason for her absence of several hours that very morning. Maddy had been in a fever of apprehension during this unprecedented event, lest Lord Bechard had involved Motley in foul play as a means of revenge. Maddy sighed. Motley might as well have fallen into the villain’s hands, for all the use she was. It was unfair, of course—Motley was not required to account for her actions—but Maddy could not help but feel that she had lost her last ally. So great was Motley’s preoccupation that she would likely take no notice even were the house to tumble down about her ears.

But speculation on Motley’s strange behavior was a useless waste of time, and Maddy had withdrawn into her chamber not to sulk over her watchdog’s apparent unconcern but to lay her plans. She would stealthily make her way to the Earl’s rooms while the others lingered over their meal, replace the key, and then join her hostess in the drawing room.

In search of diversion, Maddy leafed through the journal that she’d discovered in Cassandra’s room. It had proved a disappointment, filled with the self-centered observations of a very thoughtless young woman in whom Maddy found a strong resemblance to her brother, Alastair Bechard. Maddy did not care to think of that sinister gentleman, though she knew that the Duchess was perplexed that he had thus far made no move. Perhaps Lord Bechard had philosophically accepted the loss of his game, though this theory did not fit well with what Maddy knew of the man.

Cassandra had been displeased with the seclusion forced upon her at the Hall, and had stigmatized her spouse as a cold and heartless beast. Yet she had not been kept a prisoner, as Clem had intimated, but had been free to wander abroad at will. It may have been, perhaps, that her ladyship was kept under surveillance, for she complained of being constantly watched, and took childish delight in eluding those who, possibly, had her best interests in mind. There was no clue to the character of the Earl. Maddy squinted at the spidery handwriting, then turned the pages listlessly until her attention was caught by an entry halfway through the small book.

We are undone!
Cassandra’s untidy scrawl grew agitated.
Micah knows all, and has told me that it must end. Never have I seen him in such rage. When I told him I care not for his opinion, he struck me! I live in constant fear of what he may do—

Intrigued, Maddy turned the page, only to find it blank. Cassandra must have faced a crisis that left her unable to write more, or—and Maddy shuddered at the thought—it was then that the unfortunate Countess had tumbled to her death.

“Pardon!” said Clem, and slipped into the room. “Maddy, I must speak with you.”

“Well?” Maddy shrugged irritably. “What is it you want?” It was a pity Clem thought only of herself, and was undeterred by such obvious indications of a wish for privacy as closed doors and uncommunicativeness.

Undeterred by so cool a reception, Clem dropped into a chair. “Kenelm,” she announced in hushed tones, “has made me an offer!”

“And did you not expect he would?” Maddy exhibited no enthusiasm. “You have reeled him in most cleverly—one might almost say that poor Kenelm never had a chance. What do you propose to do? You realize that, if you marry him, your position will be secure, though I daresay some of the highest sticklers will never welcome you into their homes.”

Clem plucked at her shawl. Maddy noted this unusual article of attire, but assumed Clem was engaged in running an errand for her mistress. “I do not know,” Clem replied. “His mama says that marriage to me would cheat him of his inheritance, but Kenelm said it doesn’t signify. Maddy, what shall I do?”

“Do as you please,” Maddy retorted rudely. “If Kenelm wishes to beggar himself, it’s no bread and butter of mine.” She had no wish to dwell upon the subject of her cousin, or to think of her father’s possible involvement in Kenelm’s accidents.

“You do not feel well.” Clem prepared to depart. “I should not have disturbed you.”

Clemence was not insensitive, but neither was her sensibility so acute that she suffered overlong from her friend’s callousness. It was a shame that Maddy was so out of sorts, for Clem wished to apprise her friend of her decision to leave the Hall, but a letter from London would serve as well. It was, possibly, better that matters had worked out this way; once the thing was done, even Maddy would not be so tenacious as to attempt to dissuade her from resuming her theatrical career.

Clem slipped outside and retrieved her bandbox from its hiding place beneath an exceptionally prolific bush. It was not only Kenelm’s prospective loss of fortune that had prompted her decision, but the danger that Alastair Bechard presented to these people who had acted as her friends. More worldly wise than Maddy, Clem knew that Lord Bechard had not gracefully accepted defeat. It was far more likely that he was hatching some diabolical plan that would mean scandal for them all. Far better, thought Clem stoically, that she accept her particular destiny. If she must have a protector, then Lord Bechard would do as well as any. He would be generous, and he would not be cruel. Nor, thought Clem, whose knowledge of men was both instinctive and accurate, would he be demanding. Alastair bought a mistress as he might a costly painting, and his use for both would be to enhance his reputation as a connoisseur. It was a pity that he was not as comely a gentleman as Wilmington, but one was foolish to waste time wishing for the moon.

So thinking, Clem slipped into the wood that separated the Hall and Tyre’s Abbey, and beyond which lay the village where she would catch the London stage. It was with a pang that she thought of Kenelm, and of the pleasant life she might have had with him, but it was not thinkable that he should forfeit his inheritance because of her. He would naturally be unhappy for a while, but he would soon enough forget his actress and settle down with some unexceptionable young lady who hadn’t a blot on her name.

The sound of conversation caught Clem’s attention, and she crept closer, curious. There was still sufficient time before she must catch the stage. In a shady glen, Tilda stood talking to Sir Timothy Rockingham. Clem observed that Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson looked unusually harassed.