Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (35 page)

But even as she spoke Beth knew it was not so. A dowry was needed for a good match. Only such as Lord Deveril would pay to gain a bride. It was not as if Clarissa were a beauty. She had a rather long face and a wide mouth and unruly gingery hair. It was true that she had a lively personality and, at the moment, had youth on her side, but she was not the type to drive a man to forget the advantages of a handsome dowry.

"Is the marriage imminent?" Beth asked.

Clarissa shook her head. "The engagement is to be announced next week, but the wedding will be in September."

Beth took the girl's hands. "I
will
help you, Clarissa. I do not know yet what can be done, but I will find a way."

Clarissa smiled mistily. "Oh, your ladyship!"

"And I think in view of that you must call me Beth. We are, after all, conspirators."

Clarissa relaxed as if a great burden had been lifted. By the time the girl left, Beth felt as if the burden had been shifted to her own shoulders. Clarissa had such faith in her and yet Beth had no idea how to change her situation.

Clarissa had left Lord Deveril's set of rules on her chair and Beth picked them up. A rereading stiffened her resolution. Clarissa's distress was justified; no woman of integrity could stand by and allow what was little more than a lifetime of legalized rape and slavery. Beth might not have been able to fight against her own situation, but she could fight for Clarissa. She thoughtfully placed the sheet of paper between the pages of her book.

This also reminded her of Robin Babson. She had been so entangled in her own predicament that she had not given the boy a thought for weeks. She rang for Redcliff and together they made their way to the area behind the square where all the big houses kept their horses and carriages. There was only accommodation for about ten horses and three carriages in the Belcraven mews. Quite modest by de Vaux standards, thought Beth wryly.

Just the tax on horses and carriages paid by the Belcraven estates would bankrupt most people.

She told herself firmly to stop thinking in such a vinegarish way and went to pay respects to her horse, which had just arrived up from Hartwell. Goodness knew when she'd find time to ride Stella again.

All the time, Beth was alert for any sign of Robin.

Then he came out of a stall with a bucket in his hand. He looked in good health and was whistling.

"Robin," said Beth.

He turned curiously, then put down his bucket and touched his forelock. "Milady."

Beth went over to him, aware of Redcliff's disapproval. "I wasn't sure you'd remember me," she said.

"Course I do," he said cockily. "Watched yer leaving after the wedding, didn't I? Right fine do that was."

Beth was surprised. "Are you saying you were at the wedding?"

He goggled. "Not likely! No, ma'am. We had a right bang-up feast the day after. All the staff. It were bloody marvelous. Beggin' your pardon, milady." He wasn't the slightest bit repentant for his language. Lucien was right. He was a scamp.

Beth was content. There was clearly no tragedy here. At that moment a man came into the yard. Beth thought he was the head groom. He said nothing but clearly disapproved. "You had best be on with your work then, Robin," she said.

The boy cast a cheeky look at his boss and winked. "Right enough. All the best, ma'am."

"Thank you, Robin."

He went whistling on his way and Beth returned to the house with one burden eased. That did not help the problem of Clarissa, however, and further consideration of that situation was not reassuring. Clarissa's parents were unlikely to give up their plan unless another way out of their predicament could be found. That meant, Beth supposed, money or a better and equally generous husband. Beth was in no position to find either. She supposed the marquess might be, but would he sympathize with Clarissa's predicament? The duke or duchess? Even if they saw the wickedness of the projected match she doubted they would interfere between a daughter and her parents. It was surely against the law. By the time Beth prepared for dinner, she was no further ahead in her search for a solution to Clarissa's problems.

* * *

Lucien returned home with no definite news of Napoleon's whereabouts. The fact that Bonaparte had imposed an embargo on the French ports, preventing goods, people, and news from leaving the country, suggested the worst. All those in the know seemed to think the confrontation would be any day. Prices on 'Change were fluctuating madly with each rumor.

But for all that, life must go on, and the Season was in its final lighthearted weeks. Even the news from Brussels was as much of balls and receptions as it was of war. Beth found it extraordinary.

That evening they attended the Drury Lane Theater to see Othello. It was the first time Beth had visited this theater and she looked around for caged birds but found none. Perhaps Lord Deveril's words had been meaningless.

The great Kean was playing Iago with truly menacing cunning. The actress playing the part of Desdemona was an ethereal vision with soft white hair rippling loose down her back, her gown of floating white and silver scattered with twinkling stars. A few lines had even been added to the play to refer to this whiteness, contrasting it with the Moor's black.

Beth had always thought Desdemona an interesting part, her plight that of a woman maligned and stripped of her reputation. For the first time she saw similarities to her own situation except that she had destroyed her reputation herself, and she and her husband had managed to sort it all out. She shivered slightly when she thought of the end of the play, Othello strangling his wife in a jealous rage. It was fortunate that she and Lucien were more sensible—and yes, self-controlled—than the characters on the stage.

Beth admired the interpretation of the actress, however. She brought intelligence and dignity to the part. Beth consulted her program to see that the actress was Mrs. Blanche Hardcastle. In brackets after her name it said, "The White Dove of Drury Lane."

A chill crept down her spine. Without moving, Beth slid a glance at her husband. He was absorbed by the performance but nothing on his face betrayed personal involvement. Had Lord Deveril's words had meaning?

Then Desdemona floated into a dance, executed with marvelous fluidity of movement and classic elegance. Beth looked at her husband again and the chill seemed to eat into her bones. The smile on his face could only be called doting. Was this, in fact, where he had disappeared this afternoon with such alacrity, not in search of news? Of which he had significantly found so little.

Beth looked back at the exquisite creature on the stage. She couldn't blame any man for loving such beauty. How could Lucien's interest in Beth Armitage be more than dutiful when the White Dove was waiting for him? Marital duty. The phrase he had used. Though once Beth would not have cared, now to be taken in the marriage bed out of
duty
was unbearable.

Had his considerate reasons for not consummating the marriage been merely a polite fabrication to disguise his unwillingness? After all, on that last night her willingness must have been clear, and they had both known he could overcome her fears if he tried.

The pain Beth felt was so deep she was surprised he could not sense it. But why should she expect him to be sensitive to her hidden hurts when his true love moved fluidly on the stage before him?

How cloying he must have found her, thought Beth, when he wanted only to return to his true friends and his true love. If there had been any way, Beth would have fled, never to face her husband again.

The horror passed, as such things are inclined to. By the time of the first intermission Beth was able to discuss the performance in a rational way and even compliment the leading actors. She listened closely to every word her husband spoke, but he said nothing exceptionable about the White Dove.

Then it was back to watching the lady once again and trying unsuccessfully to block all awareness of Lucien's warm reaction to the performance. Beth was pleased with herself. She behaved throughout the evening with calm good breeding, steadfastly ignoring the cold, hard lump of pain which had taken up residence in her heart.

When they returned to Marlborough Square they took supper. The duke and duchess retired, leaving Beth alone with her husband. She looked up to see him thoughtfully studying her, and she had a moment's paralyzing horror that Lucien might choose this night, of all nights, to demand his right to her bed.

"You look tired," he said. "We should never have gone out on our first night back. You mustn't let us bully you, Beth. If you don't want to dance this mad caper then say so."

"The duchess says I must be established. And presented."

He grimaced. "I suppose so. But that doesn't demand constant socializing.
Maman
is a creature of extremes. She either lives very quietly at Belcraven or descends on Town like a hurricane, unable to leave any moment untouched. You don't have to play the game by her rules."

"I have to do something," Beth said and then regretted what might sound like a plea for his company.

"There are any number of more stimulating events. I'll see what lectures are scheduled at the institutes. If you like, I'll introduce you to Fanny Ball. She's the sister of a friend of mine and a regular blue stocking."

For some reason this did not attract Beth. Was she so changed? "I don't know," she said, then added impulsively, "I would like to visit the Delaneys."

He smiled. "A wonderful idea. Tomorrow afternoon?"

"Will they be at home?" Beth asked, meaning in the formal sense.

"There's no point in any of that with Eleanor and Nicholas," he said carelessly. "If they're out we'll do something else and visit them another time. Go look over the Royal Academy, perhaps. You may want to buy a picture or two. If you're, for bed," he added cheerfully, "I think I'll pop out."

And I know where, thought Beth bitterly.

Her choice appeared to be between dragging him to his
marital duties
or waving him off to his mistress. With a very tight smile she did the latter and marched up to her lonely room.

For his part, Lucien went to his club and had a miserable time. He was depressed by those who took the military situation seriously and irritated by those who carried on as if there weren't a battle in the wind at all. All the time he was wondering what would have happened if he'd given in to his baser instincts and carried Beth up to her bed and seduced all her fears away.

Chapter 17

The next day Beth had to admit that regardless of the way he spent his nights, her husband was doing his duty during the day. He presented himself after lunch to escort her to the Delaneys and also provided her with a neatly written list of the more interesting intellectual events taking place in Town over the next few weeks.

Hannah More was scheduled to talk, and Maria Edgeworth. There was a presentation on the sculpture of the Renaissance and a lecture on the migration patterns of birds. As an indication that such events were not beyond the bounds of the
haut ton
there was a musical and literary entertainment under the patronage of the Marchioness of Salisbury and the Countess of Jersey.

"Perhaps I should set up as a patroness of the arts," she said.

"If you wish."

Beth searched his face for any change, for any hint that he had spent a night of passion with his mistress. There was none.

"If you don't object," he said as they left her room, "we could walk to Lauriston Street. It's not far and it's a pleasant day."

Beth was happy to agree but found it difficult to strike up a conversation. The obvious topic was the play the night before and she wouldn't touch that with a barge pole.

"No more news of a battle," she said in the end. It was an idiotic thing to say as the word would be all over Town in minutes when it arrived.

"Mad rumors. The news we're getting is four or five days old. Someone was spreading word that the allies are routed. Another that Napoleon is shot by his own men. Both are denied by the War Office."

"Is it possible it won't come to battle?"

"Not unless someone does shoot the Corsican. It seems mad that one man's overweening ambition can cause such destruction. So many lives...." He broke off and they walked a ways in silence. "We have this group of friends," he said at last. "We were all at Harrow together. Nicholas, Con, Francis, Hal, Dare.... There were twelve of us. Only ten are still alive. Hal's lost his arm—Damn the Corsican."