Rescuing Rosalind (Three Original Ladies and Their Gentlemen) (17 page)

Warmsby nodded slowly, his face a mask of fear.

“Our seconds will accompany you to your lodgings, where you will pack your gear and then proceed straight to Dover, where you will take the first ship out on the tide.”

The earl nodded again. Then, signaling his second, he moved as one in a dream to mount his horse and ride away with Westringham following. Only then did Buck lower his weapon. He was so angry that he shook.

“Why did I let the worm go?” he asked the heath.

* * *

Whether the Earl of Warmsby would have left the country on his own or not, Buck would never know. However, with the knowledge that he was being watched, the spineless earl did board a freighter from Dover bound for France on the evening tide.

{ 26 }

F
ANNY SPENT THE NEXT DAY AT BEVERLEY HALL
wandering in the bright sunshine through the grounds looking out over a sparkling sea. She imagined a frigate, its sails all unfurled, with Buck on the bridge, hands on his hips. The ocean had been his home for so many years. She missed him so. How he would love this view!

With the intention of distracting herself, she began memorizing the part of Gabrielle from the manuscript she held in her hand. When the sun was at its zenith, Caro found her sitting on a rock overlooking a vista of surf pounding against cliffs. A little girl in a white dress with a pale blue pinafore held her hand.

“Fanny, I should like you to meet my daughter, Emmaline. Emmy, this is my friend, Miss Edwards.”

The tow-headed girl, who looked to be about three years old, fashioned a perfect curtsey.

“You should not curtsey to me, Lady Emmaline!” Fanny said, laughing. She stood and curtseyed back to the little girl. “I should curtsey to you.”

Obviously shy, the little girl stuck her finger in her mouth. Her mother gave her a nudge. Twisting this way and that, Emmaline said, “Can you come to tea in my nurthery?”

“I would consider it an honor, Lady Emmaline. What time do you have tea?”

The wind off the sea blew the toddler’s curls about her face as she looked up at her mother in question.

“Four o’clock,” Caro said.

“We got gingerbread!” the little girl said.

“Umm, my favorite tea,” Fanny said.

Caro hoisted Emmaline up into her arms and kissed her forehead. “Would you like a picnic, Fanny? I can send someone out with chicken and fruit and some lemonade. There’s a path along there where you can go down to the shore.” She pointed the way.

“That would be lovely. How thoughtful you are.”

“Well, I cannot have you working all the time.”

“I need an occupation, and this is my favorite one.”

“Very well, then. I will see to your picnic and we will see you at tea. The nursery is on the top floor, facing east.”

“Thank you!”

The duchess began to walk away with Emmaline before turning around to say, “Oh, I almost forgot. Ned’s Uncle Randall will be dining with us tonight. He is quite an Original.”

“I look forward to meeting him.”

After the delivery of her lunch, Fanny made her way down the rocky trail to the beach and sat in the warm sand to enjoy her picnic. The crash of the waves and hoots of the gulls made for an exotic setting. After consuming her picnic, she rested on her hands, arms stretched out behind her.

Why did the sea make her melancholy? Thinking on this for a while, Fanny realized it was because the sea had been home to Buck for many years. She would very much like to experience life at sea with him. How small and petty London would seem against the canvas of other continents, other styles of living. Fanny recognized that that was one of the things she loved about Buck—his vision. He was truly a man of the world. He did not judge her by the suffocating tenets of the
ton.

He should be here by now. If he was going to be delayed, surely he would have written. Something is wrong.

* * *

In the event, Uncle Randall proved to be an experience. A tall man, like his nephew Ned, he had a full head of bushy white hair and walked with a cane and a pronounced limp. He addressed Fanny with Georgian gallantry, which included a kiss on both of her cheeks. They were placed next to each other at dinner, which amused Fanny when she realized that Ned’s uncle had most probably been invited so that she would have a dinner partner.

“Now, young lady,” he said over the cream of asparagus soup, “Why is a lovely gel like yourself not married?”

Fanny felt herself blush like a beetroot. “I . . . I am engaged to be married.”

“Military man?”

“He was a sea captain until the war ended.”

“Good job! Military man, myself. Made a first-class husband to my Minnie. Ask Ned.”

Overhearing his uncle, Ned laughed. “Yes, Uncle, that you were. When you were not off fighting in America, you were a devoted husband.”

“America?” Fanny asked. “Oh, tell me about America, Lord Randall. I long to visit there.”

“Visit there? Zounds! Why would you want to visit that uncivilized place?”

Fanny was taken aback and could find no proper answer. Obviously, the man did not share her admiration for the former colonies.

“No concept of breeding. Rabble.”

“Surely, Uncle, you found something or someone to admire there,” Caro said.

“Democracy brings out the worst in people. Mob rule,” the old man said.

Fanny bit the insides of her mouth before she could say something rude. Clearly, here was a man who was holding tight to values she was inclined to challenge.

“Uncle, that’s coming on a bit strong. America is not ruled by a mob,” Beverley said. “They have some very sound thinkers there—Jefferson, Franklin. I have met them when they visited London.”

“God alone deserves the right to pick his rulers. They are born to their class and chosen by it, not elected by an uneducated horde!”

Thinking of the dandies of the born aristocracy with their habits of drinking, wenching, and gambling, Fanny could not hold back her indignation. “I would appreciate it, Lord Randall, if you would clarify what you mean.”

The speaker turned to face her, his face flushed, his eyebrows raised. “Ain’t it obvious?”

“Not to me,” Fanny said, hoping she sounded sufficiently meek.

“In America, it doesn’t matter what state you are born into. Anyone,
anyone
can arise to office. Excepting, that is, a man of the Negro race. At least they draw the line there.”

Fanny asked, “What qualities do you see as being necessary for a person to be a leader?”

She felt rather than saw her sister squirming uneasily.

“You are but a gel,” Lord Randall said, looking at her with sudden distaste. “What do you know of such things?”

Fanny drew herself up. “I think the most important qualities in a leader must be wisdom and compassion. I have read much of George Washington. He personified these traits.”

“Washington!” Lord Randall looked as though he might spit. “How can you revere a man that led those people to revolt against their king and country? They were bandits, criminals! King George was their divinely appointed sovereign, not George Washington! Lud, the man had wooden teeth!”

Fanny put her napkin up to her lips and did her best to hide her amusement.

In a quiet voice, Ruisdell said, “Lord Randall fought bravely against the colonials, Fanny. He was seriously wounded, which necessitated the removal of his leg.”

She straightened her face. “I am very sorry.” Fanny’s glance flew to her host and hostess. They looked remarkably sanguine while her own family members were gazing at her with reproof.

Once more, she had strayed from the strait and narrow path. This time, however, she could not find it in her heart to be sorry. No matter what she said.

{ 27 }

B
UCK AWAITED WESTRINGHAM’S RETURN
in the dining room of Grillon’s Hotel. He was growing vastly weary of White’s and its rumor mill. Even though the duel did not eventuate, he knew that tales of it would. As he sat nursing a whiskey and drawing patterns on the white linen tablecloth with his knife, his mind was far from the dark-paneled drawing room and its candlelit magnificence.

His thoughts were with Rosalind. On the morrow, he intended to set off for Cornwall. The ride would take at least three days. He could scarcely wait to hold his fiancée in his arms again. For a feisty little thing, she had been remarkably pliant, cuddling into his waistcoat. They belonged together. It was more than just a physical togetherness. Slender she may be, but her spirit was hearty. He would champion her in an argument against most men of his acquaintance. And she possessed that same hunger to see and experience other ways of thinking and doing that he missed from his days at sea.

His normal opposition to the married state did not come into play here. His Rosalind was nothing like his mother. He doubted she had a vain bone in her body.

Westringham finally arrived.

“All shipshape and Bristol fashion?” Buck asked.

“He sailed on a merchant vessel bound for Le Havre. Vast amount of luggage, so I think he took you seriously.”

“Good. You deserve a good dinner. Beefsteak? Potatoes?”

Westringham studied his menu. “Glad you chose Grillon’s. I’m tired of the lamb at White’s. Gossip, too.”

“I agree. May I order you a whiskey?”

The waiter was hovering.

“Right. And I’ll have turtle soup, steak and kidney pie, and apple tart, “ the lieutenant said.

“Sounds good. I’ll have the same. And a bottle of claret,” Buck ordered.

Over dinner, Westringham hemmed and hawed in a way that Buck recognized signaled his reluctance to bring up a subject.

“Out with it,” he said. “What is it you want to say?”

Westringham looked up and then took a gulp of wine. “The fact that you were willing to duel over a lady’s good name surprised me. But not as much as your engagement. You have always been strongly opposed to marriage. May I ask what has changed?”

“I met Rosalind again.”

“You have never explained why you refer to her by that name.”

Buck laughed. “I haven’t, have I?” He sipped his whiskey and looked into the distance. “It must have been, oh, three years ago. She appeared like a sprite in Ruisdell’s garden, dressed as Ganymede from
As You Like It.”
He rehearsed to his friend the circumstances of his first meeting with his fiancée. “I soon realized she was a girl and whipped off her hat. Down came the most beautiful waistlength auburn curls you ever saw. From that moment, I told her she would be Rosalind to me.”

Laughing, Westringham said, “I agree that she is an unusual young lady, but you are far older and more experienced. She is lovely, but there are many lovelier women.”

“I have had a lifelong bias against women in general because of events of my childhood. Rosalind demonstrates that it is possible to be a beautiful woman without being vain, cruel, and silly.” Buck twirled his wine glass and looked into its depths. “But, you say, that is to define her by what she is not. So, in other words, Rosalind is not overly concerned with her beauty, does not need homage. She is uncommonly compassionate and concerns herself with things of moment, even at cost to herself.”

“I would even say she is reckless of her reputation.”

“Certainly. I do not deny it. But it does not worry me. When we marry, we will travel, and what is thought of her in London society will never concern us overmuch.”

“I might say, I envy you your happiness.”

* * *

Later, as Buck lay in bed staring at the shadows of tree branches cast by the full moon on his walls, he wondered what Westringham would have said if he had known the details of his childhood. It had been so many years now that the tragedy of the Kernow-Charles was nearly forgotten. He was glad that he had a new name—Deal—to make of it what he could. None of Rosalind’s starts would damage it in any way that was significant to him.

{ 28 }

K
NOWING THAT SHE WAS AGAIN IN DISGRACE,
Fanny drank the morning chocolate delivered by Becky, dressed in a brown round gown that would draw no positive or negative comment, and had Becky devise a simple, spinsterish hairdo. Donning a bonnet, she slipped down the service stairs to the outside. In her hand was Caro’s script.

It was a cloudy day with a brisk wind. The surf was angry, promising a storm from the direction of the Atlantic. But before it arrived, she was determined to have a walk. Fanny proceeded through the garden, where workers were busy tying up the roses. She held fast to her bonnet.

If Buck was riding today, he would most likely become drenched. Even if he were in his open curricle, he would get horribly wet. And surely he must arrive today! Fanny’s worries teased her. She was as yet too new to this business of being in love to trust the state. Something had intervened, she was sure of it. But she could not imagine that if he really loved her, there would be anything of sufficient importance to keep him away.

Warmsby was still about. Had he attacked Buck, and perhaps killed him? How could the earl ever believe she would marry him after such an act? Fanny put the play down in the rose arbor and began shredding her handkerchief in her worry. Now that she had thought of it, this seemed the only answer.

Castigating herself for her overactive imagination, Fanny walked to the edge of the cliffs and gazed at the angry sea. In her mind, she replayed every moment of her golden hour with Buck and his confession that he loved her. Her natural proclivity to be untrusting fought against the memory of his vows and his kiss. She must get hold of herself.

Retracing her steps, she returned to the relatively sheltered rose arbor, and for the next hour, she tried to concentrate on memorizing her lines. It was such a clever play and, were it not for her worries, she would be happy to be performing. She knew Caro had taken some artistic license with Elise’s story, but all the real bits were there. It was good to remember that her sister had not always been the established duchess and mother that she was now. There had been a time when Elise was confused, had chosen unwisely, and had arrived at the state she enjoyed now only after many misadventures.