The Adventuress (2 page)

Jeremy played the rake with consummate skill, but, at heart, his kindness and steadfast loyalty prevented him from ever becoming truly profligate. He claimed this to be his greatest disappointment. He took splendid care of his mother, refusing to let her be holed up in dowager quarters, and, knowing both what an asset she had been to his father and how much she had enjoyed helping to run the estate, insisted that she continue her work. He did as little as possible, squeaked through Oxford with a degree he claimed disgraced every Bainbridge ancestor, ran with a fast set, and, perhaps, drank too much on occasion, but he never got himself into irreparable trouble. Everyone in society fawned over him, particularly the legion of mothers who longed for the dashing, fun-loving duke (whose fortune was even more attractive than his bright blue eyes) to someday propose to one of their daughters.

Over the years, Jeremy's steadfast resistance to marriage became the stuff of legends. He did everything in his not inconsiderable powers to avoid it, including pretending to court my close friend Margaret Michaels, née Seward. Their deception was borne out of mutual need. Margaret, an American, had been sent to England, much like Amity Wells, to catch a titled husband. She, however, had no interest in such things, wanting instead to study at Oxford. She and Jeremy spent a season pretending to be in and out of love. Eventually, when he threw her over (at her insistence, of course), she pled a broken heart and convinced her parents that they must not try to force her into marriage until she had quite forgot the duke. Jeremy let it be known (quietly) that he felt an English peer ought not marry an American, a sentiment lauded by the aforementioned legion of mothers. Their daughters vied for his attention with such implacable nerve that it began to make him quite unable to enjoy all the social functions in which he used to take such pleasure. Finding this condition unacceptable in the extreme, he decided to direct all of his affections toward me, his oldest friend.

At the time, I was a young widow, my first husband having been murdered only a few months after our wedding. Out of mourning and back in society, I had fallen in love with Colin Hargreaves, and even after I had accepted his proposal of marriage, Jeremy refused to stop pressing his own suit. Not, mind you, because he actually loved me, but because he knew I would go along with his scheme. He viewed my engagement as a gift from the dear Lord himself. Society believed him to be heartbroken and devoted to a lady he could not have, and the legion of mothers could tolerate with relative equanimity waiting for him to recover from the blow my second marriage struck.

Colin accepted this arrangement with good humor, knowing full well Jeremy had never been a threat to our marital happiness. He also knew that one day, Jeremy would have to marry. He might play the profligate, but he would never leave his dukedom without an heir. Much as I enjoyed Jeremy's little game, I had rejoiced when I read his telegram and knew it was over. I longed to see my friend as happily settled as I.

Then I met Amity Wells.

I am, perhaps, not being entirely fair. She failed to make much of an impression at our first meeting, but balls do not provide much of an opportunity for deep conversation. Our trip to Cannes was to offer us that. Yet almost from the moment I stepped into La Croisette with her, I knew we could never be friends. And I feared Jeremy would never forgive me for that.

 

Amity

Twelve months earlier

India did not suit Amity. The oppressive heat reminded her too much of her grandparents' plantation house in Natchez, Louisiana, where she had spent more than one unhappy summer while her parents retreated from New York's Fifth Avenue to their mansion in Newport. This arrangement came at the insistence of her grandmother, Varina Beauregard Wells, who was as unhappy at the Confederate loss in the War Between the States as she was that her Harvard-educated son had abandoned all his breeding and married a Yankee. She had always objected to sending him north for an education. The fortune he earned in copper tempered her displeasure, but she was not about to let her only granddaughter grow up with coarse northern manners. Her daughter-in-law made no effort to dissuade her. Learning to simper in that charming southern way could do nothing but enhance Amity's value on the marriage market, and Birdie Wells had every intention of seeing her daughter married to an English nobleman. So far as she was concerned, this outcome was nonnegotiable. Her husband had no interest in arguing with her regarding this or anything else about which she felt strongly.

“She must be a duchess, don't you think?” Birdie—Amity had never been able to think of her mother as anything but Birdie—made a habit of talking about her daughter as if she were not there.

“I am sure you know best, dearie.” Amity's father loved to indulge his wife, who was delightfully unlike the southern belles his mother had traipsed before him, hoping he would take one of them as his bride. Their superficial charms were many, but none could compete with his Birdie, who spoke with a shocking degree of directness. The day they met she had looked him in the eyes and said,
You are less of a fool than I expected, Wells
, and he knew he had found his partner in life.

“I am doing this all for you, my dear. Vanderbilt's daughter caught a duke and we cannot tolerate falling beneath that family. I should be unable to take so much as a step out of the house. We have got to take her abroad without delay.”

“I would never deny you something you want so badly, Birdie.” Mr. Wells folded up his newspaper and left for his office, where, after finalizing a deal that nearly doubled the family's already enormous fortune, he set about making plans for their trip. That he chose to start with India reflected his priorities. An old friend who had wrangled himself a plum position after the dissolution of the East India Company had invited him to visit, with the object of convincing him to invest in what he was certain would prove a most profitable arrangement. They would be in India by February, and stay until the following winter, when they would remove themselves to Egypt, and form all the acquaintances necessary to make an appropriate splash in London the following spring. Birdie would have preferred to start in London, but understood her husband too well to suggest an alternative to his itinerary.

Within hours of their arrival in Bombay, Amity was being heralded as the belle of expat society. Invitations poured in, and the family found themselves in even greater demand than that to which they were accustomed in New York. Birdie's exuberant parties proved a great success with the British community, although Amity noticed more than a few ladies looking down their nose at her mother, especially when she insisted they ride camels to the site of one of her picnics. Regardless, Amity allowed herself to be escorted to countless events by a series of young men Birdie had vetted, but she took little pleasure in the company of any of them. She did not object to making a good marriage, but felt that she ought at least to be allowed to like her future husband. Her new friend, Miss Christabel Peabody, shared this view. Miss Peabody, a young lady whose British manners and affability were approved of by Birdie, had traveled to India to visit her brother, who was serving there in the army. Within a fortnight of their introduction, she and Amity were inseparable.

“I do not think I shall ever adjust to being here,” Amity said, as she and Christabel lounged in the courtyard of the villa Mr. Wells had taken for their stay. “The humidity is intolerable.” She stretched out on a chaise longue and waved a large ostrich fan in front of her face.

“And it is not yet summer,” Christabel said. “You will adore Simla, though. Everyone spends the summer there. The society is incomparable.”

“Incomparable society in Simla?” A stocky man in uniform approached them, Birdie's housekeeper following behind, doing her best to announce the visitor. “Christabel, you are giving this young lady the wrong idea altogether.”

“Captain Charles Peabody, Miss Wells!” The servant made a slight bow, her hands pressed together as if she were praying.

“Very good, thank you,” Amity said.

“And Captain Jack Sheffield as well.”

Amity thanked the housekeeper again and inspected the new arrivals. Christabel's brother, Captain Peabody, was a bit of a disappointment; Amity preferred her officers to cut rather more of a dashing figure in uniform. Fortunately for her, his companion filled the role admirably. Tall and lanky, Captain Sheffield moved with careless ease, and Amity was taken at once with his easy humor and self-deprecating ways.

“The society in Simla is the worst sort of colonial balderdash,” Captain Peabody said. “If one is to be in India, one ought to
be
there, not set up some sorry version of England instead.”

“Going native, Peabody?” Captain Sheffield's grin brightened the room.

“I take all my opinions from you, old boy, so you ought not criticize me.”

“Quite right.” Captain Sheffield tugged at the cuffs of his bright red jacket. “India is magnificent: exotic and mysterious. How many forts have you ladies visited thus far?”

“Forts?” Amity asked, pursing her perfect lips and raising her eyebrows. “Why should I have even the slightest interest in visiting forts? Unless you can promise me more officers as charming as the two of you?”

“Not that sort of fort, Miss Wells,” Captain Sheffield said. “I speak of the ruins of ancient citadels, the towering walls and heavy gates that kept safe the maharajas and their jewels. You do know about the maharajas and their jewels?”

“What girl worth her salt wouldn't?” Amity smiled. “Daddy promised me emeralds while we are here.”

“Good girl. Insist on rubies as well.”

“Sheffield is a terrible influence,” Captain Peabody said. “But you could not put yourselves in better hands should you want a guide to show you the area. I am afraid, Christabel, that I will not have quite so much liberty as I had hoped during your visit. Mother is furious, but I must do my duty.”

“Of course, Charles. No one would expect less from you,” Christabel said.

“I have brought my friend along as a peace offering. Mother has no interest in doing anything beyond taking tea with her old friends, and I do not wish to see you trapped doing only that. So far as she is concerned, she has already seen the best of India.”

“She and father were here for nearly a decade.”

“Yes, but she is very keen on you having a wander around, so long as it does not interfere with her routine. Sheffield is as good a bloke as I know. He will look after you well.”

“I am still in the room, Peabody.”

“Right. Well. I must be off. I shall leave the three of you to formulate a plan for your adventures.”

From that day forth, Captain Sheffield spent every waking hour not required of him by the army with Amity and Christabel. Birdie initially balked at the young man. Captain Sheffield would never make an acceptable candidate for her daughter's husband—he was a dreaded younger son, and, hence, without title or fortune—but once she learned he was the brother of the Duke of Bainbridge, Britain's most desirable bachelor, her feelings warmed slightly. That is to say, she no longer did her best to discourage the acquaintance.

Amity, Christabel, and Jack—for none of them required formality of the others any longer—began to refer to themselves as the Three Musketeers. They traveled (chaperoned, of course, by Birdie) to the Golden Temple at Amritsar, where Amity threatened to become a Sikh, but only if she would be allowed to wear a turban and carry a dagger. The dagger, Jack assured her, was a requirement. They lamented the sorry state of the Lake Palace at Udaipur, where the damp had taken hold and ruined much of the fine interior.

“I shall make it my mission to return here and restore every corner of this place,” Amity said.

“I have been laboring under the impression that India did not suit you,” Jack said. “It would impossible to count the number of times you have told me you would prefer to be in Paris or London—”

“Or the Alps,” Christabel continued, crossing to her friends after she had finished photographing the remains of a frieze on one of the walls. Her brother had given her a camera for Christmas, and she had become something of an expert at using it. Carrying it on their trips often proved problematic, but they all agreed it was worth the aggravation when they saw her pictures. “Or Rome—”

“Stop, you wretched beasts! I repent,” Amity said. “I repent wholly. The subcontinent has grown on me. When are we to see the tigers?”

Birdie categorically refused to allow a safari of any sort, tigers or not. This did not give Amity more than the slightest pause. She appealed to her father, who never could resist her, and he organized a hunting party for them. Christabel very nearly begged off coming, but was persuaded in the end, although she was convinced, up almost to the last moment, that it was a wretched idea.

“Come now, Bel,” Amity said. “Think of us, camping in the wild, riding on elephants—”

“I do quite fancy riding on an elephant,” Christabel said.

“I promise you will never regret it.”

“Oh, Amity, I can never say no to you!”

“Why would you want to?” Amity smiled. They departed for the Rajasthani hills the next morning.

 

2

The celebration of Jeremy's engagement to Miss Wells began on board a special train in London, hired by her father. The ordinary boat train was not good enough for his little girl, nor was the ordinary boat that ferried ordinary travelers to Calais. We made our crossing in the lap of luxury—even the weather cooperated, treating us with bright sun and smooth seas—and we were then ushered onto a second special train that whisked us south toward Cannes.

I resented everything about the trip, particularly having to be away from my twin boys, Henry and Richard, who were now two years old. They, together with our ward, Tom, brought joy and laughter to our home, along with trails of muddy footprints, dogs hidden in the nursery, and more than a few casualties among the breakable objects in our possession. Tom's mother was a former friend of mine who had turned out to be a cunning murderer, and his parentage had raised more than a few eyebrows in society. That is, his maternal parentage. His father, a dissolute wastrel to my mind, was considered superior because he came from an old and noble Italian family. Fortunately, neither Colin nor I cared a bit for anyone's opinion on the subject, and we held Tom, who was a few months older than the twins, as dear to us as Henry and Richard. I missed them all terribly and longed to return home to shower their chubby cheeks with kisses.