The Romance (16 page)

Saint Clair should have been glad of this new Belinda. But he felt like crying and longed to put his head down on the soft bosom of Mrs. Ingram and weep.

‘I did not know you were a shrew,’ he said acidly.

‘I am not a shrew, but an intelligent woman whose eyes are offended by your dress.’

‘Were we married, I would beat you!’

‘Pooh,’ said Belinda.

His face flamed and he turned the carriage around. ‘I am taking you straight home, madam, and I expect a written apology from you.’

‘Oh, really?’ drawled Belinda. ‘Then you may wait forever.’

Saint Clair had always considered himself an easygoing fellow, but he was angry as he had never been before. How dare this
bitch
insult his clothes. A red rage engulfed him, and he suddenly swung in his seat and slapped her across the face. Startled faces stared at them from all sides. Belinda burst into tears.

Shocked and alarmed, St. Clair said, ‘I am truly sorry, but the provocation was great. You are never to speak to me like that again or it will be the worse for you.’

Belinda wept quietly beside him on the road home. Saint Clair began to feel quite manly. He had put this pert miss in her place.

*      *      *

Perry had cudgelled his brains to think of a way of getting rid of his cousin. The only reason St. Clair was getting married was because he was afraid of being disinherited. Perry had been following him for days and knew all about his clandestine visits to Mrs. Ingram.

If Toby, so his busy brain ran, thought he had an inheritance that would free him from dependence on his father, he would promptly try to end the engagement.

Then let him think he had money coming to him. That would get him out of Town, where he might be attacked. Perry drew out a plan of the
family tree. Saint Clair had no interest in family matters and probably did not know that Great-Aunt Amy had died the week before.

Perry travelled out of London to Hammersmith, where the great-aunt had lived. He found the large house had only a caretaker and wife in residence. He had taken the precaution of disguising his appearance. He introduced himself as Great-Aunt Amy’s lawyer and said he had come to take inventory of the contents along with the heir. He would call in a week’s time and would pay them an extra day’s wages to leave him the keys and take themselves off.

This being successfully accomplished, he returned home. He then forged a letter supposed to come from Great-Aunt Amy’s lawyer, telling Lord St. Clair that she had left her fortune to him. If he would call at her old home in a week’s time at two in the afternoon, bringing his betrothed with him, they would both hear something to their advantage, Great-Aunt Amy having changed her will in his favour as soon as she had learned of his betrothal. He then sanded it and sealed it and sent it to St. Clair’s town house.

The scene in the Park where St. Clair had struck his betrothed had made the gossip columns. Saint Clair sustained a visit from Lord Burfield, Belinda’s brother-in-law, who threatened to horsewhip him if he ever laid a hand on Belinda again. Then St. Clair’s father
had raged at him for ungentlemanly behaviour and said he wanted the wedding brought forward to the autumn.

Lord Burfield’s visit had convinced the terrified Lord St. Clair that there was no way out of this dreadful betrothal. He was convinced the Beverleys and their in-laws would sue him for breach of promise if he even hinted that he did not want to marry Belinda.

And then the lawyer’s letter arrived. He immediately took it around to Mrs. Ingram. ‘Do you see what this means?’ he cried, his eyes shining. ‘If I am financially independent; you and I can get married.’

Mrs. Ingram studied the letter. ‘You are to take Belinda with you. That might mean that she is included in the bequest.’

‘When in this day and age is money left to a woman?’ said St. Clair.

Mrs. Ingram suddenly smiled at him. ‘It was left to me and I have enough for both of us, but you will never countenance the idea of living on my money. But if you get your inheritance, it looks as if we shall have to go to Gretna.’

‘A Scotch marriage. Just the thing. And Pa can do what he likes with that poxy Mannerling!’

*      *      *

Miss Trumble carefully cut out all the reports in the newspapers of St. Clair’s scene with
Belinda in Hyde Park with her pair of sewing scissors. Then she pasted the cuttings on two sheets of paper, folded them, sealed them, and addressed them to the Marquess of Gyre at his country residence.

She quickly tucked the missive under the blotter as Belinda came into the room.

‘You have not said a word to me in days,’ said Belinda sadly. ‘I would have thought Saint Clair’s behaviour to me would have prompted you into speech.’

‘I am determined to let you make your own decisions, Belinda,’ said Miss Trumble, ‘but now that you have brought the subject up, what prompted a lazy fop like Toby Saint Clair into such disgraceful behaviour?’

‘The fact is,’ said Belinda ruefully, ‘that I was most dreadfully rude to him. I insulted his driving and his clothes.’

‘Belinda!’

‘I wanted him to take me in dislike.’

‘Ah.’

‘I should never have accepted him, Miss Trumble, and now what am I to do? The marriage is to be arranged for this autumn, and Saint Clair shows all signs of going through with it.’

‘Then all I can suggest is that you summon up your courage and tell him that you do not wish to marry him.’

‘There is some hope that it can be pleasantly done,’ said Belinda. ‘Saint Clair has just called
and he is very happy and excited. It seems that he had a great-aunt called Amy Wainfield, who lived in Hammersmith. She has left him her estate, which he thinks might be considerable. We are to go to Hammersmith to meet her lawyer for the reading of the will. Saint Clair said something like, ‘Now I will be free and can run my own life.’ You see, he is marrying me to please his father. If he has a great deal of money of his own, then he will not need his father’s approval. So I decided to wait until the reading of the will and then tell him that I cannot marry him.’

‘And what if all the old lady has left him is her lap-dog?’

‘Then I must find the courage anyway. Shall we proceed to the grave as two old maids, Miss Trumble?’

‘Better that than being trapped in an unhappy marriage.’

When Belinda had left, Miss Trumble put on her coat, retrieved the letter to Lord Gyre, and made her way over to the City to the main post office and sent it express. She did not entertain much hope. Gyre had probably already read about the scandal and had thought that Belinda Beverley was getting no more than she deserved.

*      *      *

A day later, Lord Gyre read the press cuttings
with amazement and horror. Some exaggerated and said St. Clair had punched his fiancé on the nose.

All the bad memories of Belinda that he had carefully nursed left his mind. The thought that St. Clair had actually laid hands on her was past bearing. Saint Clair should not be allowed to get away with it.

Lord Gyre went to the gun-room and lifted a box of duelling pistols from a glass case, tucked the box under his arm and went off to call to his servants to pack his bags and make his travelling-carriage ready.

*      *      *

Unaware of the wrath that was about to descend on him, St. Clair was showing the lawyer’s letter to his friend, Mirabel Dauncey. Mirabel scanned the letter.

‘Seems odd to me,’ he said at last. ‘This lawyer—what’s his name, Fitzwilliam?—don’t say nothing about how much. The old girl could have left you little. Did you know her well?’

‘Only saw her about once when I was in short coats.’

‘Then why should she leave you anything?’

‘I don’t know,’ said St. Clair, exasperated. He had expected his best friend to be as excited and happy about the news as he was himself. ‘I think it must be because she heard of my engagement.’

‘Still plan to get shackled?’

Saint Clair had no intention of telling Mirabel about his love for Mrs. Ingram. ‘Yes.’

‘Why? She insulted you monstrously.’

‘Belinda has been all right since then. Got to take a strong line with these females.’

‘You amaze me. So this aunt lived at Bexley House in Hammersmith?’

‘That’s the place.’

‘You go tomorrow?’

‘Yes,’ said St. Clair, ‘and I hope the weather is fine.’

‘What’s the weather got to do with it?’

‘I’ll be driving my curricle.’

‘Then, dear boy, if it rains, use the closed carriage.’

‘We ain’t married yet. Not the thing.’

‘She’ll have her maid with her at least, and you’ll have grooms or that cheeky tiger of yours.’

Saint Clair shook his head. ‘That lawyer wrote again and said the old lady had funny ideas and requested that only I and Belinda be there at the reading of the will.’

Mirabel raised his eyebrows. ‘So you leave them outside or in the hall.’

‘Look, old man, I am not going to put a foot wrong here. If I get my own money, I can tell Pa that from now on I’ll lead my own life.’

‘With a parcel of Beverleys around your neck for the rest of your life?’

Saint Clair laid one finger alongside his
nose. ‘Let’s just see what I get before we discuss that.’

*      *      *

Lord St. Clair let himself into his town house late that afternoon, planning to have a few bumpers of brandy and then change for the evening.

The footman who held open his drawing-room door for him informed him in a hushed whisper that the Marquess of Gyre was waiting for him.

‘What’s he want?’ asked St. Clair curiously. ‘Thought he was in the country.’

The footman did not reply.

Saint Clair walked in, the smile of welcome dying on his lips as he saw the black wrath on the face of his visitor.

‘To what do I owe the honour…’ he was beginning as he bowed low.

Looking at St. Clair’s foppish features, the marquess was suddenly engulfed by a wave of hate. He brought his fist up and slammed St. Clair right on the nose.

Saint Clair sat down on the floor, blood streaming down his face, and began to cry with shock and pain.

‘I was going to call you out,’ said Gyre, looming over him, ‘but you are not worth the effort. Hear this. If you ever lay a hand on Belinda Beverley again, I shall kill you.’

‘She insulted m-my c-clothes,’ wailed St. Clair.

‘And quite right, too, you miserable popinjay. Faugh! You make me sick. I shall be watching you.’

The marquess crashed out. After some time, St. Clair dried his tears and gingerly felt his swollen nose, finding to his amazement it was not broken. Then he proceeded to get well and truly drunk.

*      *      *

The following morning, the marquess went for an energetic gallop in Rotten Row. He wondered whether to call on Belinda. Now that he was in London, he longed to see her again.

He found he was riding in the direction of the Burfield town house. The streets of Mayfair were quiet as society slept off the excesses of the night before. But just as he had nearly reached the Burfields’ house, he saw to his surprise Toby St. Clair assisting Belinda Beverley into a racing curricle. She looked pale and sad, and there were shadows under her eyes. The marquess’ heart began to hammer. He put her downcast looks down to the fact that St. Clair was probably still beating her. And where were they driving off to without any servants or outriders?

He decided to follow at a discreet distance.

*      *      *

‘What ever happened to your face?’ Belinda was asking. ‘You have been in a fight, have you not?’

‘These things happen,’ said St. Clair.

‘Is it sore?’

‘Of course it’s sore, you empty-headed widgeon.’

‘Good,’ said Belinda.

‘Fine wife you’ll make!’

‘You stink of brandy. No doubt you picked a fight when you were in your cups.’

‘Just look at the scenery and keep that impertinent mouth of yours well and truly shut.’

Saint Clair and Belinda had fallen into the way of sniping at each other like a couple who have been married for years.

After half a mile, Belinda said, ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Ask away, provided it isn’t another of your damned insults.’

‘Have you high hopes of this inheritance?’

‘Very.’

‘So if you inherit a great deal of money, you will not need to please your father any more.’

‘Right.’

‘I should be happy for you, if that were the case.’

He turned and glanced at her.

‘I think you mean that. Why?’

Belinda decided then and there that she could not wait any longer. Perhaps if St. Clair
found out that he had only inherited very little, then she might not have the courage to tell him the wedding was off.

‘It would suit me very well,’ said Belinda. ‘I do not want to marry you. We should not suit. All this arguing is silly. I am so sorry I insulted you. You see, I wanted to give you a disgust of me.’

‘You didn’t mean all those things you said about my driving and my clothes?’

‘No, I lied. But I do not want to marry you.’

Saint Clair reined in his team, swung round, grabbed hold of Belinda and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. ‘I don’t want to marry you either,’ he cried. ‘Oh, you wonderful lady!’ He suddenly stared at her. ‘Did you hope I would cry off?’

‘Yes.’ They both began to giggle like schoolchildren.

‘Better drive on,’ said St. Clair. ‘I can just smell those bags and bags of money.’

Behind them, Lord Gyre made a half-turn to ride back to London. He had been sorely mistaken. They looked like the very picture of a young couple in love.

But somehow raging jealousy made him change his mind. Where were they going? And without servants?

*      *      *

The caretaker who let St. Clair and Belinda
into Bexley House had had his instructions. He was to take the couple to the upstairs drawing-room, serve them wine and cakes, and leave for the rest of the day with his wife.

The house was large and dark. Most of the outside walls were festooned with ivy, and Belinda thought, as they followed the caretaker up the stairs, that it was like walking under water as the moving leaves of the green ivy outside kept the inside in a flickering green submarine gloom.