The Notorious Lord Havergal (5 page)

At the end of thirty minutes, Havergal gave a polite stretch and said, “I must not keep you ladies up too late. Not that you need any beauty sleep,” he added gallantly.

“Oh, you are retiring?” Lettie said, lowering her paper.

“It was a fagging trip.” Eager to ingratiate her, he rose and glanced at what she was reading. “What is it that has captured your interest so keenly, Miss Lettie?”

She peered up from the paper and found herself being studied by a pair of sparkling eyes, fringed with enviable lashes. The cartoons had not exaggerated that feature much. She glanced hastily at a headline and said, “I was just reading about the new Apothecaries Act, which is going to forbid unqualified doctors from practicing medicine.”

“And a good thing, too,” he declared. “There are too many quacks and bloodletters hanging up their shingles. What will be the criteria for qualification?”

She quickly scanned the column. “Applicants will have to pass an examination set by the Society of Apothecaries. Would you like to read the article, Lord Havergal?”

“If you’re sure you’re through with it.”

“Quite sure.” She folded up the paper and handed it to him. It was an invitation for him to leave. He perched on the edge of the sofa and looked at the paper. “Have you noticed the print in the
Times
is clearer than it used to be last year?”

“
I
noticed it,” Violet said at once. “Don’t you remember we discussed it, Lettie? I was complaining of needing spectacles, then the
Times
suddenly seemed easier to read.”

“They switched to a steam-powered press last November,” Havergal told them. He needed a pretext for wanting money and had chosen an investment in the new steam press. He had swotted up on it and wanted to deliver his lecture.

“Fancy that,” Violet said.

“It prints eleven hundred sheets an hour—they think they can get it up to eighteen hundred. Two hundred and fifty an hour is considered pretty good by the handpress. Konig, a German fellow, devised the system. It will be adopted by book printers as well. The makers of those dreadful marble-covered novels will have us buried under a blanket of swooning heroines and wicked villains.”

Violet smiled weakly. A reply was up to Lettie, and she said, “You leave out the most important character, sir. Pray do not forget the hero. That, I fancy, is why the ladies read those books. At least it is why
I
do,” she added with a challenging look.

Havergal made an exaggerated grimace. “Pause while I unwedge my foot from my mouth, ladies. No disparagement was intended, I promise you. I read a deal of tripe myself.” He hastily scanned his mind for any light reading he had glanced at recently and said, “Walter Scott, for example. I adore him.” Their surprised faces suggested that Scott was considered pretty heavy stuff, and he looked lower. “Lewis’s
The Monk,
and Walpole’s
Castle of Otranto”
he added.

“Surely you are not calling
Otranto
tripe!” Violet exclaimed.

“Oh well, but
good
tripe,” he said, and laughed at his own foolishness.

There was something infectious in his laughter. Lettie found herself smiling. “As opposed to bad tripe, like Plato,” she riposted. “I was never so taken in in my life as when I opened Tom’s copy of
The Republic,
expecting to become wise. I turned first, of course, to the bit on ‘Women and the Family.’ As soon as I read that one sex—and you need not ask which one—is much better at
everything
than the other, I tossed the book aside.”

“Yet he is more lenient toward women than many philosophers,” Havergal said mischievously.

“Then you have just saved me the bother of reading the others. What I especially despised was that cipher, Glaucon, with his interminable ‘certainly’ and ‘exactly’ and ‘agreed.’ I could just imagine him, tugging his forelock and simpering.”

Havergal firmed his tentative position on the edge of the sofa and said, “Philosophy, you know, is not really about the comparative worth of men and women. It is concerned with broader questions regarding the meaning of life, in the here and hereafter.”

“I found no illumination there either, milord. As to eternity, your Plato begs the question. He does not prove that we have a soul but says categorically the soul cannot die because its own specific evil cannot kill it. An arbitrary statement, to say the least.”

“I agree,” he said. And added facetiously, tugging at a lock, “I’ll be your Glaucon in this case. Plato was never one of my own favorite philosophers. He is too old, too far removed from our modern times. Have you read Kant, Miss Beddoes?”

“I’ve never heard of him,” she said bluntly.

“You must let me send you a copy of his work.”

They talked for ten minutes, till Havergal felt he had begun to philosophize a wedge into her opposition. He then took the newspaper to retire to his room. “This nice clear print will make night reading easy,” he said. He bowed and left.

“He seems very nice,” Violet said.

“I was surprised to find him interested in philosophy.”

“And the duke—charming. A little on the small side, of course. I am thinking of the assembly.”

“They are a pair of rogues, Violet. Havergal had Crymont come along to urge me to loosen the purse strings. He thinks I would be afraid to say no to a duke, but he is very much mistaken. I am going to tell Cook we shan’t be home for dinner tomorrow evening. But the next evening, I think we must invite the duke and Havergal to our dinner party for the assembly.”

“Oh my,” Violet said with a beatific smile.

“A bit early for the feather tick,” Cuttle said to his master when Havergal entered his bedchamber.

Havergal’s valet served double duty as a bruiser His Lordship was backing. Cuttle took his valeting duties lightly. He had the well-formed body and misshapen nose of his profession, along with a fine head of blond hair and blue eyes.

“I’m not going to bed. I’m going out as soon as the ladies retire,” Havergal replied.

“On the sly, eh? Shall I pass the word along to Crooks?”

“Yes, and no, respectively.”

“Eh?”

“Yes, on the sly; and no, I shan’t require my groom. Crymont is driving me. Questions might arise if my carriage leaves the stable.”

“Where are you going?” Cuttle demanded in the easy tone of an equal.

“None of your business. Just slip downstairs after the others have retired, and see the door’s left on the latch for me to get back in before morning.”

“Laurel Hall ain’t the kind of house you should be pulling off such stunts. You know Beddoes is a crusty old devil. And provincial ladies—they’ll take a dim view of petticoat dealings.”

“You’re letting that lascivious imagination of yours run away with you, Cuttle. Who said anything about petticoat dealings?”

“The duke--what else would it be?”

Havergal ignored him. “Run downstairs, and see if you can find out when the ladies retire.”

“Eleven. I’ve already been.”

“Damn, it’s only ten. Crymont will have an hour to wait. I shall go now and slip out the window.”

He went to the window, raised it, and looked for means of descent. No convenient vine clambered up the wall, but by climbing out and grasping onto Cuttle’s outstretched arms, his feet came close enough to the ground that he figured he could drop without breaking an ankle. Within minutes he hit the soft earth unharmed and hastened toward the roadway.

He soon spotted a dark hulk in the shadows ahead where Crymont’s carriage had pulled off the side of the road. “What kept you?” Crymont demanded in his usual petulant tone.

“I had to do the pretty with the ladies.” Havergal climbed into the carriage, and Crymont pulled the check string to be off. “What made you decide to come?”

“I decided to add my beseechments to yours. A comely lady, Miss Beddoes,” Crymont said.

“She’s a Turk. It won’t be easy bringing her around my thumb, but I have two ideas. Any mention of her brother brings a smile to her lips.”

“Sure sign of a lady without a man in her life. And the other?”

“She fancies herself a bluestocking,” he replied with a curl to his lips. This was no compliment. Both gentlemen preferred their ladies unspoiled by education. “She has misread a little Plato and enjoys to boast of it. I’ll dump the butter boat on her vast learning and see if that won’t do the trick. I only require a thousand. Damn that Hamlet!”

“She’s a lady when all’s said and done. Win her by wooing.”

“And end up shackled for life? Thank you, no. Now to more interesting matters. Where are we off to?”

“The Royal Oak.”

“I was hoping for a cockfight in some rural barn. I can’t show my phiz at the inn. Word might get back to Laurel Hall.”

“Live dangerously,” Crymont urged in a voice of utter ennui. “The prize is worth the risk.”

Havergal looked up, interested. “Cards?”

“It’s a surprise, but you’ll like it, I promise you.”

“I can’t afford to risk losing more blunt at this time.”

“This is my treat, Havergal. It won’t cost you a sou. No one will see us slip up to my room. The patrons will all be in the taproom at this hour.”

Havergal allowed himself to be talked into this surprise, feeling it would be dinner and champagne, both of which would be welcome after the meager hospitality of Laurel Hall. The only person who saw them enter was the proprietor. Crymont, as usual, had taken the best suite at the inn. It was a double room with an adjoining door. Wine and four glasses were arranged on the dresser.

“From my own cellar,” Crymont mentioned. “I left a case at Laurel Hall as well. It didn’t seem an appropriate gift for the ladies, but the servants will appreciate it, so I gave it to the groom. One never knows when some extraordinary service will be required of servants.”

“Kind of you. Who is joining us?” he asked, glancing at the four glasses.

Crymont allowed his boredom to slip into something bordering on excitement. “Havergal, you won’t believe the luck. I talked Cherry Devereau into coming with me! She will
never
leave London, you must know. First time she’s ever been outside the city. And we brought her friend with us, for you. A fetching redhead,”

“Good God!” Havergal felt a strange ringing in his ears. He was temporarily bereft of oaths to express his anger and chagrin.

“You might well stare! The two prettiest bits of muslin in all of London. Who would have thought Cherry would come to—where are we? Ah yes, Ashford. It’s costing me a pretty penny, I can tell you. Iona is so charming, I’m thinking of taking her under my protection as well when we return to town. Mind you don’t breathe a word to Cherry.”

“Crymont, you clunch! What’s the matter with you, bringing lightskirts here at a time like this!” He paced the floor, raking his fingers through his hair. “Word of this will be all over town by morning. How often do you think Ashford sees a woman like Cherry Devereau?”

“Never! A rare treat for them, I fancy,” he crowed.

“A treat? Try a scandal. I’m trying to pass for a pattern card of rectitude at Laurel Hall.”

“We’ll keep the girls under wraps. No one has seen them but the proprietor.”

“Then the story is as good as published in the journals. I’m ruined. That’s all. Ruined. I’ve got to get back to the house and make sure Miss Beddoes knows I’m there—all night.”

“That sounds intriguing,” Crymont said with a quizzing look. “Short of joining her in her bedchamber, how do you propose to accomplish that?”

“I’ll think of something. I’m leaving. You’ll have to lend me your carriage to return at once.”

“But what of Iona?”

Havergal shot him a black look. “Let them sing a duet for you—then send them back to London.”

“Singing wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“I know what you had in mind.” At the door Havergal stopped a moment. “The redhead—Iona, did you say?”

“A lively wench with green eyes.” Crymont pulled at his chin, waiting. “A full figure,” he added enticingly, “and
very
friendly.”

Havergal glared. “Send her off immediately! You must be mad.” And so must he, for thinking he could stay for an hour without getting caught. He stomped out and slammed the door behind him. He sent for the groom and was soon ensconced in Crymont’s well-sprung carriage, pondering how he could get back into the house. Not by the front door. The ladies wouldn’t have retired yet. He could toss some pebbles at his own window and hope Cuttle heard him....

He had the carriage stop some yards from the house and ran stealthily through the dark night the last length. As no light showed at his bedroom window, he assumed Cuttle was in the kitchen. Peering through that window, he saw Cuttle chatting to a female servant who was making bread. He’d stroll nonchalantly in through the back door and pretend he’d been at the stable. He’d give a sharp set-down if the servant inquired why he’d left by the front door and was returning by the back.

Cuttle turned a startled eye on him when he entered. Mrs. Siddons, in cap and apron, just glanced up, then returned to her dough.

“I went out to have a look at my grays,” Havergal mentioned to Cuttle.

Cuttle, always eager to abet his master, said to Cook, “His Lordship is powerful fond of his bits o’ blood.”

“I’d like to see you upstairs, Cuttle,” Havergal said.

He looked about for the servants’ stairs to avoid any chance of encounter with the ladies. When Cuttle rose, he stumbled against the table. Havergal flashed
him
a dangerous glare. Bosky! Damn his eyes. They were just approaching the staircase door when footsteps were heard, and Miss Beddoes came in at the other door. Havergal froze in his tracks.

“I wanted to have a word with you about breakfast, Cook,” she said. Then she spotted Havergal and, like him, stood still, staring. “Lord Havergal!” she exclaimed.

Her shock was evident, and he rooted around in his mind for some explanation of his extraordinary behavior in invading her kitchen. His uppermost desire, however, was to establish firmly his innocence throughout the entire night. He said, “I was having trouble sleeping and came looking for a sleeping draft. Laudanum, or—” Yes, laudanum was the thing. How could he be carrying on with lightskirts when he was fast asleep? “Laudanum,” he repeated more firmly.