Dair Devil (37 page)

At first she mistook the smartly-dressed lady in the brocade gown and upswept coiffure as the Duchess, then realized the woman was too young, and she was not pretty enough. The Duchess was said to be breathtakingly beautiful, a feast for the eyes, and in every way a duchess. This must be the lady-in-waiting. She knew it was so when the woman stepped to one side of the carriage steps where a line of upper servants, from housekeeper to butler and those privileged enough to have access to the Duchess’s private apartments, had gathered to greet their mistress.

A footman at the opened carriage door offered up his gloved hand, and out onto the top step appeared a fairylike creature not much above five feet in height. Her bright blonde hair was swept off a sweet face that was still exquisite. Most of the weight of curls fell about her shoulders and down her back, tied up with satin ribbons that matched her open robe gown of soft green silk with underskirts of lace. The matching silk bodice had a delicate lace trim and displayed a magnificent décolletage, where nestled a three-strand baroque pearl and diamond necklace. Slender arms were adorned with gold bangles and a pair of embroidered silk mules were just visible under the hem of her gown. Edith was more than satisfied she had indeed seen a duchess this day, and that this particular duchess measured up to expectations. She tried to take in her every detail, from the pretty silk hair ribbons, to the Dresden lace of the underskirts, to the unusual almond shape of her eyes, convinced she would never again have such an opportunity

And then, as if by magic, the careful storage of these memories evaporated the moment the Duchess put an expensively shod foot to solid ground. She suddenly came to life, and she was mesmerizing. Clutching a handful of her delicate petticoats, she swept up to the servants, proclaiming how glad she was to be back in Hampshire, speaking not in English but in French. Fluttering a delicate fan and commenting that the heat was unbearable for this time of year, she spoke to each servant, asking questions and listening attentively to each response. And when she reached the head of the line where stood the housekeeper, who bobbed a curtsy, and the butler, who bowed his head, the Duchess took hold of the butler’s hand, and then the housekeeper’s, and engaged them in quiet conversation for three or four minutes, the housekeeper dashing a tear from her eye. And then the Duchess was gone inside. Her lady-in-waiting and the rest of the servants followed, each and every one of them smiling, leaving Edith, who had ducked to the other side of a grandfather clock to be out of sight, awestruck. To have been privileged to be in such close proximity of a noblewoman of the highest rank and of such dazzling beauty was not likely to happen again in her lifetime, and Edith vowed to remember always the homecoming of Antonia, Duchess of Kinross.

A
T
THE
PAVILLION
, Edith’s news, and the message to be delivered to the Major, entrusted to her by a footman as she left the house, were forgotten in her surprise at being proffered a cup of tea. With her head still full of images of the Duchess of Kinross’s arrival she also forgot the requisite
thank-you
. Her state of confused preoccupation was compounded watching Rory move about the pavilion in her stockinged feet and without her walking stick. In the absence of her special shoes and a stick to lean on, her awkward gait was at its most pronounced. This circumstance in itself was of no surprise to Edith, who had cared for her mistress since she was in her teens. It was that Rory chose to allow the Major to see her at her most vulnerable, a situation that was avoided at all costs, even with family members.

Obediently, Edith took the cup of tea and went to the spot on the marble bench between two fat columns where her needlework lay. She stirred the sugar lump and once dissolved, sipped at the sweet black brew, grateful for the hot drink, a wary eye on her mistress.

Rory returned to the table and fussed with the tea things. She placed a cup of tea, the milk jug and the sugar bowl before the Major, and then set the remaining cup of tea at her place, but did not immediately sit. She was well aware of what she was doing. She knew Dair’s gaze remained fixed on her the whole time she was chatting away about sidesaddles, flying like a bird and swimming like a mermaid. She could hardly believe she was prattling on like a shatter-brain. But it was nerves, pure and simple. She knew also that his eyes never left her while she poured out the tea and took a cup across the pavilion to her maid. That was a last minute stroke of evil genius. Out of the corner of her eye she had seen Edith come up the stairs and stop to catch her breath on the top step. Taking her a cup of tea would give her a reason to walk the length of the pavilion, without her shoes and no stick. It was not that she was worried about spilling the tea, or tripping, or making a fool of herself in that sense. She readily went about in her stockinged feet in her own apartments or out in the garden on a summer’s day, if no one was about.

What filled her with trepidation, what made her nervous, was that she had put the Rory no one saw on show, for him. The lame Rory with a turned right foot and an ungainly gait. The Rory who loved silk and satin embroidered gowns and robes, and all the feminine fripperies that went with an outfit, and could convince herself when standing before a long looking glass that men would find her attractive. That is, until she took a step away from her reflection. Her right foot would not obey her left foot and point forwards, nor would it lie flat. It turned inwards and the weight was on the ball of the foot, compressing her toes; it gave her a limp. She tried to blame the underpinnings or her gowns and the spangled silk embroidery for exaggerating her impediment when she walked. But the truth was, nothing changed when she was stripped to her chemise, or in her nightgown. She would always walk in this manner. There was no escaping the raw physical facts that when she moved about on land she would never be graceful, elegant, or pleasing to the eye.

She took small comfort in the knowledge that at least today she was dressed in a simple cream muslin gown, without stays, and with her hair an untidy damp mess down her back. Perhaps his eye would stray from her gait to find fault with her plain gown and bird nest hair…

If ever there was a moment for him to change his mind about making love to her, this was it.

Taking a deep breath, heart thumping in her ears so loudly she thought she might go deaf, she finally turned to look across at him. And what she saw, or more to the point, what she did not, was of no comfort. She could not fathom his reaction. Reflected in his eyes was something altogether unknown to her. She held his gaze, and with each passing second the heat intensified in her throat and cheeks. She would not speak. She waited for him to do so. And she waited for him to move time on, and in the direction of his choosing.

When he did, he did so in a wholly unexpected manner. It was so unexpected that Edith’s teacup slid from her hand. The hot black tea splashed and stained the hem of her skirts, as the teacup smashed on hard marble, splintering into a hundred tiny shards across the floor of the pavilion.

T
WENTY-THREE

D 
AIR
KNEW
what she was trying to do, and was having none of it. Just because he wasn’t bookish didn’t mean he couldn’t read a person’s emotions and motives. If by this display she was trying to turn him away, break his resolve, make him realize how thoroughly unworthy she was of him, then she did not know him at all. But he suspected it was her lack of confidence that made her flaunt her physical weakness so openly. It must have cost her dearly to do so. In the eight weeks (had it only been eight weeks?) since he had scooped her up into his arms off the platform in Romney’s studio, she had only ever walked in his presence with the assistance of her walking stick.

He was a little hurt she needed to test his sincerity in this way; that she possessed a scintilla of doubt he might be shallow of character; that he would not desire her, esteem her, love her, all because of a tiny flaw of God’s making. Again, he reasoned her doubt came from her youth and inexperience. Her grandfather had kept her sheltered, and that was not such a bad thing. Only time would see her lose the self-doubt and strengthen her self-belief about how truly lovely she was in character and form. And he had every intention of spending that time by her side, kernel of doubt be damned. He knew in his heart they were compatible in every sense. If this walk across the pavilion had shown him anything, it was to take a good hard look at himself, and how he had allowed his parents’ loveless marriage and his father’s vile bitterness to determine his own outlook on life for far too long.

Here was a young woman who, through no fault of hers, lived with an impediment every day. It was a circumstance out of her control, and yet she had not allowed it to rule how she viewed the world. She was not bitter. She did not blame others. She was joyful and full of optimism. He needed that in his life. He needed
her
in his life.

He joined her by the teapot stand.

He wasn’t entirely sure how to conduct himself at such a momentous crossroads in their lives. He was as nervous as she was hesitant. In fact, he was so nervous the skin on the back of his neck prickled. He thought for a moment he might lose consciousness. Why did time slow upon such life-altering occasions? It was the same the moment before the infantry drummer set his sticks to the skin of his kettle and started to beat, or the trumpeter sounded his bugle, signal to charge into battle. Terror mixed with the relief of getting on with it, and getting through it, to live another day, sent him at full gallop. But as many times as he had made the charge astride his mount, he had never done this before, and knew he never would again.

It was only later that night, lying naked under a sheet in the big four-poster bed with the windows thrown open to allow for a cool breeze, both hands under his head, and smiling up into the darkness, that he recalled what he had said, and her response.

He took hold of Rory’s hands, smiled into her eyes, and gently kissed her forehead. He then let go of her right hand and, still holding the left, went down on bended knee. He looked up into her face and for an instant he smiled. He could see by her expression she had no idea of his intent. That settled his nerves enough for him to say in a steady voice,

“Rory, I love you. Will you—Will you—Miss Aurora Talbot—consent to marry me?”

When she merely blinked down at him, as if he had spoken to her in some foreign tongue only known to himself, and touched his bearded cheek, he smiled nervously and turned his head in her hand to kiss her palm. For the second time he was glad he had grown a beard; he knew he was blushing. He rose up off his knee but kept hold of her hand.

“Rory, I want you to marry me… I have never wanted anything in my life as much as I want you to be my wife, but—but only if you want to…”

Rory’s blue eyes widened. She clapped a hand to her smile, as if in disbelief and shock at his offer. And then she began to laugh and cry at the same time. Her series of small nods were acceptance enough for him. She threw her arms around his neck and he gathered her into a tight embrace and laughed along with her. She clung to him, murmured that she loved him too and nothing would make her happier than to be his wife. They stayed that way, joyous and reassured, tremors of relief coursing through their bodies, until involuntarily parted when Edith dropped her teacup and it smashed into pieces on the marble tiles.

After that, time raced forward, and too fast for him to remember all the words spoken and the promises made. It seemed within a blink of an eye of his proposal and her acceptance, he was watching his newly-betrothed go off with her maid in the pony trap back to the Gatehouse Lodge. Two things he did remember: They agreed to keep their betrothal to themselves until Dair formally spoke with Lord Shrewsbury; he would meet her at the jetty in the morning to row her across to Swan Island. As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t decide which held more dread for him.

H
E
ARRIVED
AT
the jetty in his shirtsleeves, light linen frock coat slung over a shoulder, to find Rory waiting for him.

He was late.

He had risen early, as was his usual practice since his time in the army, and taken breakfast in his rooms to write three letters: One to his father; one to his father’s bankers; and one to his brother Charles. All three letters informed their respective recipients of his betrothal. The first two letters he knew would be delivered without being diverted to Shrewsbury’s secret post office, where all suspect letters were opened, read and expertly resealed, usually with the recipient none the wiser to the trespass. But his letter to Charles, a known traitor, would be delivered to the secret post office. The wax seal with the impression of the Fitzstuart coat of arms left by his gold signet ring would be expertly removed, and the contents of the letter pored over in every detail. Which is why he wrote it in the cipher his brother had used to pass on vital information through the French to the American rebels about English troop numbers and deployment.

There was nothing traitorous or of interest to the Secret Service in the letter. It simply informed his brother of his betrothal and expressed the wish that under different circumstances he would have greatly desired Charles to bear witness to his nuptials. He hoped his brother and his new wife had settled into their life in Paris, and to expect a wedding present from him soon. He signed off with the firm belief that one day in the not-too-distant future they would be reunited.

Although the letter’s contents were innocuous and far from traitorous, he knew the double agent within Shrewsbury’s secret service could not take the chance the letter didn’t hide some important piece of information vital to the American war effort. Why else would the Major write to his brother, and in code? Dair hoped mention of a wedding present would be construed as code about the English army’s movements in North America. It was a ruse, and he would wager his future inheritance on the traitor ensuring the letter made its destination without anyone in the secret post office, and most importantly, Shrewsbury, knowing of its existence. Now it remained for him to set the trap and wait for the traitor to walk into it, trip more belike.