The Counterfeit Gentleman (17 page)

Bethia had always felt quite intimidated by Mrs. Drake.
Only a few years older than Bethia, the dresser had lost her
father at Trafalgar and her husband at the Battle of
Corunna. Lacking any other close male relatives, she had
been forced to go into service to support herself. More gen
tly born than the other servants, she was treated with awe
by the servants, and she was absolutely inflexible when it
came to matters of style.

“I wish to keep it,” Bethia said flatly, amazed at her own
temerity. “See that it is cleaned and then hang it in my
wardrobe.”

Mrs. Drake looked at her for a long moment, and by
screwing up all her courage, Bethia managed to meet her
gaze squarely and without flinching. Finally, the dresser
asked, “Do you intend to wear it again? For if you do, I
shall be forced to seek employment elsewhere, else my rep
utation will be ruined.”

Although her mouth did not actually turn up at the corners, there was a smile in her voice and her eyes sparkled, and all at once Bethia felt the tension drain out of her. With
a smile she said, “On the other hand, your consequence is
so great, according to my aunt, we might instead set a new
style. We could call it neoprovincial dowdy.”

This suggestion was too outrageous even for Mrs. Drake, and she could no longer keep a straight face.

“Tell Cook that I shall have supper on a tray in my
room,” Bethia said.

Still chuckling, the no-longer-formidable dresser de
parted with the offending garment, and Bethia began to
wander aimlessly around the room, which was large
enough to contain Digory’s entire cottage—much too large,
in fact, for one single, solitary, and incredibly lonely young
lady.

All her anxieties about the future returned, and she found
herself also biting her lip to keep from crying. She had
never known it was possible to miss someone as much as she missed Digory—never known it would be this painful
to be separated from him.

She wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers up
around her chin. But what good would that do when there
was no one to sit by her bed and hold her hand and tell her stories?

Alone ... alone ... alone ... she could not get past that
thought. How would she ever survive without him? Thank
goodness they would soon be married. That is, assuming
she could obtain her aunt’s permission.

And if she could not?

Fear knotted her stomach and made her tremble all over.
What would she do if Aunt Euphemia could not be talked
around?

For a moment Bethia felt the same panic she had felt
when the water had closed over her head, but then she re
membered the wager: If her aunt did not agree to the mar
riage within one week, Digory had promised he would
elope with her to the Continent.

One week, and then one way or another, the two of them
would be man and wife—only one week, a mere seven
days ... and seven nights....

Looking at the clock on the mantel, Bethia saw that
barely an hour had passed since Digory had walked out the
front door and vanished into the London crowds.

A most horrifying thought struck her. Suppose he never
returned? Suppose he had never intended to marry her?
Perhaps he had felt obligated to see her safely home, but
then nothing more. How could she ever find him in Lon
don?

Then she remembered Lady Letitia, but just as Bethia
was taking a breath of relief, she realized she was clutching at straws. Lady Letitia was Digory’s friend, not hers. If he asked her to, she would doubtless lie through her teeth to protect him—to hide him.

The simple truth was that she had no way of finding Dig
ory if he chose to hide himself from her. She had no idea where—other than somewhere in Cornwall—he lived. His
cottage was close to the sea, but then her grandfather had
once told her there was no place in Cornwall that was more
than fifteen miles from the sea.

She did not even know which town or city he lived near, because they had wandered around on back lanes until they were well into Devon.

Had they really kept off the major post roads to avoid de
tection by her cousin? Or had Digory wanted her to be confused, unable under any circumstances to find her way back
to that little cottage?

“You are being irrational,” she scolded herself.

But reason told her it was illogical to expect any man to
agree on such a slight acquaintance to marry a woman he barely knew. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she would never see him again.

Her aunt, of course, probably thought that Digory was a
fortune hunter, out to marry an heiress. But Bethia could
only wish such were the case. Then, at least, she would be
assured that he would not jilt her.

A light tap came at the door, and Aunt Euphemia en
tered, a smile on her face. “Oh, good, you are looking quite
pale and wan. How clever of you to manage it, my dear.
Anyone seeing you like this will be quite willing to believe
that you have spent the last week in bed.”

The mention of bed was unfortunate since it brought to
Bethia’s mind memories of Digory—memories that might
be all she would ever have of him.

“I have been thinking about it, dearest Bethia, and I have
decided that the best thing is for you to be seen in public
again, but not doing anything so strenuous as shopping or being fitted for a new dress, although Madame Arnault did
send word yesterday—or was it the day before yester
day?—well, it doesn’t matter precisely when—although
now that I think about it, it must have been Friday, because
Saturday all I got was a letter from my goddaughter—”

Bethia interrupted her aunt, who could prose on for
hours. “I am not going out this afternoon or this evening. In
fact, I intend to stay in this room until after I have married Mr. Rendel.”

Her aunt’s right eye twitched, but other than that, she
gave no indication that she had heard a word Bethia said. “I
think the card party at the Craigmont’s would be best for our purposes. Lady Craigmont has assured me that it will
be quite an intimate gathering. You will not find any other young people there, which is a pity, because all those de
lightful young men you have cast your spell over will be
much distressed that they cannot dance with you again, but
I should not want you to overdo and have a relapse. And
there is no point in rushing things. Tomorrow’s ball at the
Feathergills’ will be soon enough. Although if your temper
ature becomes elevated by this evening’s entertainment,
perhaps it would be best to postpone dancing until Wednes
day evening at Almack’s, which is not to say that you
would have to forgo the Feathergill’s ball entirely, just that you might wish to sit out the dancing.”

Aunt Euphemia was apparently determined to erase from
her memory—and from Bethia’s memory—all the events
that did not conform to her rules of proper behavior.

“No,” Bethia said tiredly. “No, I am not going to the card
party. No, I am not going to the dance at the Feathergills’
house. No, I am not going to Almack’s.”

Her aunt opened her mouth to say something more, but
Bethia forestalled her. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Have I
made myself perfectly clear? No, no, no! I can repeat it if
you did not understand it. No, no, no, no—”

“That is quite enough,” Aunt Euphemia said, looking
vexed. “One would think you did not even know the word
‘yes.’“

“Ask me if I intend to marry Mr. Rendel, and you will
hear that word.”

“If you mention that man’s name again, I shall send for
the doctor, for the only explanation that I can think of for
such obstinate behavior is that you are suffering from a
brain fever.”

“And if the doctor agrees with you, then I am sure he
will insist that I stay in my room,” Bethia said with a smile.

Her aunt attempted to scowl back at her, but finally she too could not refrain from smiling. “Well, if you are ab
solutely positive that you wish to remain at home, then I
shall send a note to Madame Arnault, and she can do your fittings here.”

“That is a splendid idea,” Bethia said. “I believe with
very few alterations, my new pale gold walking dress will
be eminently suitable for a wedding dress.”

Before her aunt could reply—and from the expression on
her face, it was obvious that she intended to protest vigor
ously—there was loud knocking at the door—not a scratch
ing or a light tapping, but a pounding that made the door positively shake.

Hurrying across the room, Bethia opened the door and found herself face-to-face with Uppleby. Crowding close
behind her butler was Little Davey, who smiled and winked
at her.

Bethia’s relief was overwhelming. All the time she had
been arguing with her aunt, a niggling little voice in the
back of her mind had kept repeating, “How will you ever
find Digory if he chooses not to be found?”

But surely Little Davey would not be here if Digory intended to vanish out of her life. So long as this overly large, genial young smuggler was here, Bethia could put aside her fears that she would never see her very own dearly beloved
smuggler again.

Her butler, however, was looking neither relieved nor
happy nor reassured. Instead he seemed to be quite of
fended. “I regret the need to bother you, miss, but this man
barged right in without waiting for me to consult you. He is making some ridiculous claim that he has been instructed to
change all the locks in the house—”

“Nay, I never said that,” Little Davey protested. “It is
Mr. Donovan here who is the locksmith.”

A tiny man wearing eyeglasses poked his head around
Little Davey and politely tipped his hat.

“As a matter of fact,” Little Davey said, clapping the but
ler on the shoulder, “I am here because I have always
wanted to be a footman.”

Neither Uppleby nor her aunt, who appeared to be
shocked into silence, seemed to find his statement amusing,
but it was all Bethia could do not to laugh out loud. “I am
not sure we have any livery large enough to fit you,” she
said.

Hearing a moan behind her, Bethia turned to see that her aunt was now a sickly shade of green.

“Surely, my dearest Bethia, you do not seriously intend
to employ this ... this
person
as a footman in this house?”

“Of course not, Aunt Euphemia. He was only joking.”

“Well, someone should tell him that his attempt at levity
is sorely misplaced.”

“Shall I summon the watch to have him removed?” Up
pleby said, his face all pinched up with distaste for the intruder.

“That will not be necessary,” Bethia said. “You see, I
have hired this gentleman to be my personal bodyguard.”

Now it was the butler who turned green.

Matthew, Viscount Edington, had already removed his
jacket, and his valet was in the process of untying his
neckcloth, when there was a light tapping at the door, fol
lowed after only a perfunctory pause by the butler, who en
tered the room rather nervously.

“Yes, what is it?” Matthew said crossly. The hour was
far too advanced for him to wish to deal with any petty
household affair. Moreover, on the way home from the
opera, his wife had volunteered to rub his bad leg. Not only
was her touch capable of soothing the pain of his old
wounds, but more important, whenever she massaged his leg, it invariably led to other, even more enjoyable activi
ties in bed.

“Beg pardon, m’lord, but there is a man below who
wishes to speak with you.”

“At this hour? Why are you even bothering me with this?
Tell him to come back in the morning—and not before
eleven o’clock, either, if you please.”

“I suggested as much, m’lord, but—”

“But what?”

“He said he prefers to discuss his business—though he declined to state what that business might be—during the
dark hours of the night, which sounds rather havey-cavey if
you ask me.” The butler cleared his throat and glanced
sideways, apparently realizing too late that Matthew had
not
asked for his opinion.