The Notorious Lord Havergal (4 page)

Norton scrutinized the sideboard more closely than a dinner guest should and pulled the chair to Lettie’s right hand for himself. Havergal pretended not to notice and sat on her left.

Norton did not speak when he was eating. It was a lingering trait of his less affluent days. He gobbled up his food as if he might not see more for a week. Violet decided the potatoes were overdone, and Havergal insisted they were just as he liked them. They took turns apologizing and explaining till Lettie was tired of it all.

“Let us agree dinner is a mess and speak of something else,” she said irritably.

Havergal murmured a quiet “Amen.” He waited to hear what subject she might raise, but as she cut into a bird as tough as white leather and began chewing determinedly, he saw that the enlivening of the conversation was up to him.

“Do you hunt, Miss Lettie?” he asked.

“No, I have never hunted.”

“Do you ride at all?”

“A little. My mount is getting old.”

“Lettie says she and Ruby are growing old together,” Violet told him. “When Ruby is past it, then Lettie means to quit riding altogether.”

Lettie gave her a sharp glare. Havergal caught it and bit back a smile. So Miss Lettie
was
tender about her age, as he suspected. “How old is Ruby, Miss Lettie?” he asked. He purposely used Norton’s way of addressing her, as it sounded more friendly.

“She is eighteen.”

“Then she will surely beat you to retirement.” He smiled. “It is generally held that a horse of twenty is the equivalent of a man of seventy. I cannot believe that a young lady like yourself, in the prime of life, will be ready for pasture in two years.”

Nor was she quite ready for condescending assurances of this sort. “I haven’t ordered up my Bath chair yet,” she said.

Norton glanced up from his eating and said, “Ho, Bath chair! That is a good one, Miss Lettie. You ought to see her pelting along the meadows, milord. Her shank’s mare can outpace a racehorse.”

“How long does a pig remain race-worthy, Lord Havergal?” Lettie snipped. “I am thinking, of course, of your Hamlet.”

“I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you, ma’am. The pig-racing business is new to me. Perhaps our eminent authority can inform us?” he said, turning to Norton.

Norton lifted his head from his plate long enough to say, “You ought to get ten years out of a healthy trotter.”

Somehow or other the talk turned to Tom. “Miss Beddoes’s brother, Tom, wants to take up politics when he comes down from university this spring,” Violet mentioned.

“Indeed?” Havergal asked. “What university is he attending?”

“Christ Church, Oxford,” Lettie replied.

Havergal, alert to her moods, noticed this was a subject dear to her heart. “Excellent! It is my own college. But you must not fear all the graduates are so worthless as I,” be added with one of his infamous smiles.

It was a smile no woman under ninety years old could be entirely immune to. “At least he isn’t reading pig racing,” she allowed with a little unsteadiness of the lips that might be interpreted as a stillborn smile.

“He will not return to Laurel Hall when he graduates, then?” Havergal said.

“No, he has expressed interest in a political career.”

“Will he stand for Parliament?”

“His plans are not firm yet, except that he means to go up to London and look for a position.”

“I will be happy to arrange introductions for him, if that would help.” He was rewarded with a definite smile. “Will you remain in Kent to look after the estate?” he asked.

“For the present,” she said vaguely.

There was some softening of attitudes over the rest of dinner. As long as Havergal didn’t mention money, he was safe, but he had come here to get his money, and the prickly topic could not be ignored forever. As he was staying in the vicinity for a day or two, however, there was no need to rush into it immediately.

“We shall leave you and Mr. Norton to your port,” Lettie announced when dinner was over. The bread pudding did not detain anyone but Mr. Norton for long. Cook had not seen fit to oblige her mistress with a cake.

“Horn-and-hoof management, that is the way to do it,” Norton said approvingly when the unappetizing dish was set before him. “No need to waste stale bread and crusts when a handful of raisins and a sprinkle of cinnamon make them entirely edible.” Lettie turned a deaf ear on his compliment.

“We’ll take our port in the saloon as usual,” Norton said, inferring he ran quite tame at Laurel Hall. “A man would be a fool to deny himself the pleasure of such lovely ladies’ company. Lord Havergal will second me on that, eh laddie?”

Lord Havergal’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. When they came back down he said, “Just as you wish,” and rose to leave.

They had no sooner entered the saloon than there was a gentle tap at the front door. As the usual evening caller, Norton, was already with them, Lettie could not think who it might be.

The soft, sibilant sounds of a gentleman’s voice were audible, but no words could be distinguished. Within seconds, Siddons appeared at the door and announced with great pomp, “His Grace, the Duke of Crymont.”

A
duke?
No such person lived within a day’s driving distance of Laurel Hall. An earl was the highest nobility in the parish, and old Lord Devere had never called on them in his life. Lettie was glad she hadn’t yet taken a seat, for she was uncertain whether a lady was expected to rise for a duke. Violet looked ready to faint, and Norton stood with his mouth hanging open in astonishment. All three looked to the doorway with the liveliest curiosity. Lettie had not expected a duke to be so small, but in all other details he fulfilled every expectation of ducal grandeur.

His Grace wore proper evening attire. He was a perfect model of noble elegance, from the gloss of his chestnut curls to the sheen of his patent-leather slippers, not omitting a black evening suit, immaculate cravat, and a ruby the size of a cherry inserted in the latter. He shimmered forward and took Lettie's hand, not to shake, but to raise to within an inch of his lips for a kiss.

“Madam,” he said in hushed tones. “I am honored.” He then lifted his little head, tossed it in Siddons’s direction, and reached out his hand to receive what Siddons was holding. It was a bouquet of roses. He took it and handed it to her.

“Why thank you, sir,” she said, blinking in confusion.

It soon came out that Havergal was the cause of this strange visit. “Crymont, allow me to present Miss Lettie Beddoes,” he said, and went on to include the others. “The duke is on his way home to Havenhurst from London and mentioned he might stop at Ashford.”

“I would have been here sooner, but I was held up by a rush of callers and did not arrive till six. I took dinner at the inn and came along as soon as possible.”

Lettie thought it strange that the duke should be calling on Havergal at Laurel Hall. Was he under the misapprehension that Havergal was staying here? Worse, did Havergal himself expect an offer of rack and manger? She gave Siddons the flowers and sent him off to put them in a vase.

The visit had one good effect. It turned Norton into a mute. He said not a word but just stared at every detail of the duke’s toilette. When he had learned who the duke was and that he was here to see Havergal, he ran off home to tell the news to Miss Millie, who would soon relay it to the whole town.

Violet remembered her manners and said, “Perhaps everyone would like to have tea now—or would you prefer port?”

“A cup of tea would be marvelous,” Crymont decided.

Tea was called for, and the four mismatched people took up seats to await its arrival. “So, Havergal, were you shocked to discover ‘old Beddoes’ is a lady?” Crymont asked with an arch look at his hostess. “I was told at the inn, madam, when I was seeking directions here, that you are Havergal’s guardian.”

“I was surprised,” Havergal admitted.

“He was shocked,” Lettie said to the duke.

“Why did you play such a stunt on the poor boy?” Crymont demanded, and she gave her explanation.

“Well, it is an odd thing,” Crymont said consideringly, “but by no means unique. My cousin Jethro had his bit of blunt left in the hands of his sister, for he was a wastrel. Not to say that Havergal is one!” he added swiftly.

“No indeed,” she agreed demurely.

Havergal felt his spirits sink. He had thought there might be a legal way out of this position, but his friend’s word convinced him otherwise.

The tea arrived, and Lettie poured for the guests.

“What sort of a town is Ashford?” Crymont asked. “Do they have assemblies and things?”

“Indeed we do,” Violet told him. “There will be a spring assembly on Friday evening.”

“Friday? That is only two days away. We must stick around for that, Havergal,” he said in a perfectly bored tone at odds with his speech. “Perhaps we can induce the ladies to accompany us?” he asked with as close as he ever came to a smile in Violet’s direction.

“I hadn’t planned to stay quite that—” Havergal began.

“We might as well,” Crymont said, and drew a weary sigh. “London is dull as ditch water this week, which is why I left. There is nothing new playing at any of the theaters. We’ve seen the offerings at both Drury Lane and Covent Garden. There is only Castlereagh’s ball and Mrs. Johnston’s rout, and of course Gully’s ridotto. Oh, and I believe Lady Eskott asked us to dinner, but Auntie won’t mind if we shab off.”

Lettie’s mind reeled to think of so many entertainments. What had Ashford to offer? It was pure chance that the spring assembly was coming up. Other than that, it would be dinner with the vicar and friends and perhaps a few calls from Mr. Norton. Almost certainly a barrage of calls from Norton with the spring assembly looming. Wouldn’t she love to appear at that assembly on Havergal’s arm!

“Oh my,” Violet said. “Ashford has nothing like that to offer.”

“One comes to the country to rusticate,” Crymont informed her wearily. “Is it a firm date for the assembly, ladies? Havergal?” He looked from one to the other. Havergal sat, undecided.

“We certainly plan to attend,” Violet said. “I hope you will remain and come with us.”

“That will be delightful,” Havergal said reluctantly. He looked far from delighted and sounded miserable.

“Then it’s settled,” Crymont said with quiet satisfaction. “And tomorrow evening you ladies must let Havergal and me take you to dinner at the Royal Oak. They do a splendid baron of beef.” His head turned toward Lettie. “You will have some suggestion where we can go for a drive in the afternoon, Miss Beddoes?” An inflection on the last words made it a question.

A holiday in the company of a duke and an exceedingly handsome viscount was too much temptation. Instead of the cool facade she had planned to present, she replied civilly, “Canterbury is not very far away.”

“Ah, I should drop in on Uncle Clarence—the archbishop,” he added for their edification.

“Oh my,” Violet whispered. Her face wore the dazed look it wore when she was reading one of her marble-covered novels.

Crymont drank up his tea rather quickly and set down his cup. “This has been delightful, but I really must be running along. Havergal, I know, is putting up with you, but I have booked rooms at the Royal Oak. At what hour will it be convenient for me to call tomorrow, madam?”

Havergal writhed in embarrassment. “I am not putting up here,” he said crossly.

“Oh do,” Violet exclaimed. “We have had the bedchamber specially aired. There is no need for you to rush off.”

Before answering, he looked hopefully at Lettie. Unable to make up her mind whether to encourage this scheme, she just looked away. “If you’re sure it is no trouble....”

Violet smiled, and it was settled.

Lettie said to Crymont, “Will two-thirty tomorrow be convenient, Your Grace?” She never thought she would be using such words as “Your Grace.” Yet to tell the truth, the duke seemed less impressive than the viscount.

“Excellent.”

After bows and curtsies were exchanged, Crymont left. Havergal accompanied him to the front door, trying to give a casual look to this new fashion. The ladies were highly curious as to what they were saying. By changing her chair, Lettie could see the leave-taking, but not hear it.

Siddons appeared with His Grace’s many-collared driving cape and curled beaver. Crymont permitted him to help him on with his vestments, then left with a silent wink at his friend. There was a world of mischief in that wink, yet Lettie could not believe Havergal had actually arranged the visit. His expression was one of surprise when Crymont arrived. Havergal looked mystified at that moment, but he schooled his features to blandness before returning to the gold saloon.

When he had first followed Crymont out, Lettie had allowed herself one angry “Encroaching! One would think he was the host, following Crymont to the door.”

“Hush, Lettie. He'll hear you.”

“I don’t care if he does. I can be rude, too. I shall take up the journal and read when he comes back.”

Upon his return she sat with her nose in the paper. The habit of good manners proved hard to break, however, and she soon lowered the paper.

“Don’t let me disturb you if you wish to read, Miss Lettie,” he said politely.

She made some initial demur, but when Violet engaged him in talk—gossip really—about Crymont, she resumed her “reading,” which did not prevent her from overhearing every word of their conversation. She learned that the Duke of Crymont was extremely rich and heard some details about his estates, but in the ensuing half hour, she did not learn one fact that reflected credit on his character. He was fortunate to have inherited so much, he had pretty manners, he was tolerably handsome, and when one said that, one had said it all.

In short, he was cut from the same bolt as Havergal. They were lucky, but they were not particularly worthwhile. The duke’s higher titles and larger fortune were countered by Havergal's striking appearance and more engaging personality. It was unusual and gratifying to have two such noblemen calling on them, especially with the assembly so near, but they must not lose track of why they were calling. Havergal wanted more money to waste, and Crymont, she suspected, was abetting him.