Two Corinthians (26 page)

Feeling faint, Claire sank down on the edge of the bed. He had misunderstood something Lizzie had said, but once he had got it into his head he would not budge an inch. She contemplated a night spent fending off Horace's advances and shuddered.

Chapter IXX—Bertram

Bertram considered George IV's Coronation ostentatious in the extreme. It discouraged him that the First Gentleman of the Realm, who had spent several fortunes promoting the arts, should display such a vulgar want of taste. He had only attended because the Earl of Tatenhill insisted it was the duty of his heir to be present.

He watched his frail father droop in his heavy velvet and ermine robes, glad that he and his mother had at least persuaded him not to attend the banquet following the six-hour ceremony.

His mind wandered to the proposal of marriage he would make to Claire tomorrow. The prospect disturbed him. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that she would suit him in every way, and she must be grateful to receive so flattering an offer. There would be advantages to having a grateful wife who would not scold or tease, not that Claire was given to scolding or teasing, unlike her sister. All the same, if it were not for his father's command he would not be making that offer.

His eyes returned to the earl, who was limping up to the throne to kiss the monarch's left cheek. The business was nearly over.

At last the tail end of the procession left the Abbey. It was well after four.  Judging by the crush of spectators fighting their way to the exits and the roar of the crowds outside, he would be lucky to reach home by six. He must change before he went off for a quiet evening at White's with his cronies, the last he would enjoy for some time now that he was about to become betrothed.

He waited until the worst of the crowds had gone, then strolled back to his lodging in the Albany. Pinkerton gasped with dismay at the sight of his master's creased coat and limp cravat.

“I've laid your evening clothes out, my lord.  Your lordship's bath will be ready in ten minutes. Oh, here's a note came for your lordship some hours past. Miss Sutton's lad brought it, said it was urgent. Allow me to relieve your lordship of his coat.”

Bertram glanced at the note, recognising Lizzie's hand. He set it on his dresser and submitted to Pinkerton's aid in easing out of his coat. What ailed the chit now, he wondered.

“Don't say they are crying off from dinner with the Earl,” he muttered.

“My lord?”

“Nothing. My bath, if you please.” He reached for the note with one hand as he pulled off his neckcloth with the other. Scanning it rapidly, he paled. “Hell and the devil confound it! Pinkerton!” he roared. “My riding clothes, quickly. I shall have to do without the bath. No, I'd best drive. Tell Abel to put the chestnuts to the curricle, and send word to Mr Ferguson at White's that I shan't be able to join him. Hurry, man!”

Twenty minutes later, Bertram took the reins from Abel and stepped up into the curricle.

“You want me along, m'lord?” enquired the groom.

“No. Yes.  No. Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“Mum's the word, m'lord.”

“Jump up, then.”

Abel scrambled to his perch as the carriage dashed off down Piccadilly.

“The Bath road, m'lord?” he ventured to ask as they left behind them the noisily celebrating crowds in Hyde Park.

“The Bath road. How many inns are there in Colnbrook?”

“Least half a dozen, m'lord. 'Tis a long stage but lots o' folks stop there.”

“Damnation, that's what I thought. Why the devil did the ninnyhammer not give me its name?”

“Miss Lizzie in a bumblebath again,” opined Abel.

“How did you guess?  No, don't tell me. I'll be damned if I know why she expects me to rush to the rescue.”

If Abel had an answer for that rhetorical question, he kept it to himself. Though his lordship drove at a furious pace, the groom was not worried, for this time his master wanted to arrive in one piece.

The extraordinary sight of a London hackney carriage, with a very tired horse, standing in the yard of the first posting house in Colnbrook advertised to Bertram that his quarry was here. The sun was setting, he noted worriedly.  Even if they set out immediately he could not return Lizzie home before dark.

“Take care of 'em,” he ordered, tossing the reins to Abel. “I'll hire a pair to go back and you can bring the chestnuts tomorrow.” He strode into the Cross Keys.

The sound of raised voices led him through the door on his left, into the coffee room. Lizzie stood in the middle of the room, her bonnet dangling from her fingers, the cynosure of all the fortunately few customers. She was engaged in a spirited argument with a stout couple who must be the landlord and his wife, and a small, grubby man he had no hesitation in identifying as the hackney driver.

“I swear you will be paid,” she said passionately, then caught sight of Bertram. Her mouth fell open.

It was extraordinary, he mused, how pretty she was even when she was gaping. It suddenly dawned on him to wonder how she had managed to send Alfie back to London with the message.

“Bertram!” she squealed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

The trio assailing her turned as one, their expressions changing as they took in the immaculate Corinthian with his eyebrows raised in supercilious enquiry.

“How much?” he drawled, ignoring Lizzie.

The driver scuttled forward. “Two guinea the flash mort promised me, guv,” he whined, “but I orter get four, all this way outa town.”

“The young miss wants a private parlour,” explained the landlady in a conciliatory tone.

“An excellent idea. See to it.” He tossed a couple of coins to the driver. “Come, Elizabeth.”

Moving in a dazed way, she took his offered arm and they followed the innkeeper to a private parlour. Bertram nodded approval, though the room was sadly beneath his usual standards.

“Tea and biscuits for the young lady,” he ordered, “and a heavy wet for me. I'll want your best pair put to my curricle shortly.”

“No!” said Lizzie, recovering her voice.  “I'm not going anywhere with you.  How in heaven's name did you find me?”

Bertram shut the door in the fascinated landlord's face.

“You wrote to me,” he reminded her, leaning against the table and enjoying her flashing eyes and pink cheeks.

“I did not!  At least, not telling you to come here. Oh no, Alfie must have made a mistake and delivered George's note to you!”

“I hope you are not suggesting that I read a letter addressed to Winterborne. I have it here.” He passed it to her and watched the dawning realisation on her face. “Come now, Lizzie, tell me what this is all about,” he said gently.

“You will be excessively angry with me,” she said in a muffled voice, turning her back on him but not before he noticed the agitated clasping and un-clasping of her hands.

“To my extreme astonishment, I find I am not angry at all, only curious.”

“You are supposed to be at Bumble's Green, locked in with Claire for the night so that you will have to marry her,” she confessed, her voice unsteady. “George was meant to come here and compromise me so that he would have to marry me.”

Bertram's hands tightened on the table's edge until his knuckles showed white. “Are you so very much in love with George?” he managed to ask past the strangling sensation in his throat.

“No, but you were to marry Claire and I knew you would not want me to live with you. I had to marry someone. Oh, everything has gone wrong!” she wailed, and burst into tears.

Lizzie crying—bright, cheerful Lizzie crying; he could not bear it. In two strides he had her in his arms, and once she was there it seemed only proper to shower her face with kisses.

At first she strained away. Aghast at his own actions he was about to let her go when he felt her arms creep up about his neck. His heart jumped as he saw the wonder in her tear-drenched blue eyes.

“Bertram?” she said hesitantly.

His answer was to crush her lips beneath his own.

“Ahem!” said the innkeeper appearing behind her.  “Tea, my lord. Your lordship's groom has picked out a team for your return to town.” He set a tray on the table.

Bertram found himself standing by the window smoothing his hair with a nervous hand, while Lizzie hid her scarlet cheeks at the other end of the room.

“Thank you,” he said, clearing his throat.  “I shall call if we need anything else.”

“Certainly, my lord.” The landlord bowed his way out.

“Will you have some tea, Lizzie?” Bertram asked, his voice unnaturally calm, ingrained good manners coming to the fore.

“Yes. No.  I don't know. I don't care. Oh Bertram, I am sorry I tried to compromise you, even if you were supposed to be George, and it is kind in you to pretend you...you like me a little but I know that I am forever driving you into the boughs. You need not marry me. Claire will not mind, she need never know what happened.”

“You forget, my love, that by now Claire must be thoroughly compromised herself.” Somehow she was in his arms again. It felt most natural. “Besides, I find that I was paying court to the wrong sister all this time.”

She hid her face in his chest. “You need not pretend, honestly. I brought Molly, just in case, so I am not really compromised at all.”

“Little widgeon, have you not heard what I am saying?  It is you I want to marry, though I must admit to being taken by surprise myself. Somehow I must have fallen in love with you in between our quarrels. But I forget,” he stiffened, feeling cold all over, and his arms dropped to his sides, “perhaps you do not want to be my wife. There is no reason why you should not make your home with Claire and Winterborne.”  He stepped away from her, turning his back to hide his wretchedness. “What a coxcomb I am to suppose that you return my feelings!  You need not make any more excuses, your maid is chaperone enough.”

“Bertram!”  The desolation in her voice tore his heart. “I do!  I do want to be your wife. I have been wondering all this time why it made me so miserable that you meant to marry Claire, when you would be such a perfect husband and I want her to be happy.  It was jealousy. What a cat I am!”

“Coxcomb and cat, perhaps we are well matched.”  He turned again to find her holding out both hands to him. He took them and held them tight, drinking in the sight of her. “Such a very pretty little cat, even with your hair all awry.”

“You should look at yourself in the mirror,” she retorted. “I am shocked that you should go about with your neckcloth in such disorder.”

“I tied it in an almighty hurry, and it has been through a deal since,” he said, happy to see her recover her spirits. “Come and rest your dishevelled head against my disgraceful cravat, little love.”

He led her to a sofa by the fireplace and pulled her down beside him. When her blonde curls were tickling his chin in a satisfactory manner, he disturbed her again to kiss her ear.

“Much as I adore you,” he said seriously, “and though I recognise that I might never have realised it without your muddled intervention, I want to do the thing properly. I want to introduce you to my parents as my betrothed, and have the banns read, and wed you before all the world in St George's, Hanover Square.  I don't want anyone to be able to say there was anything havey-cavey about our wedding.”

“I should like a big, fashionable wedding,” she said agreeably, snuggling closer, “as long as it is soon.”  She sat up suddenly, bumping his chin.  “But suppose Lord and Lady Tatenhill don't like me!  That is why I went through all this instead of waiting for you to propose to Claire.  I was afraid the Earl might forbid you to marry her.”

“They will be too pleased to see me betrothed to take exception to you, unless you are particularly outspoken when you meet them!”  He grinned at her indignation.  “Perhaps we had better present them with a
fait accompli
. I shall send a notice of our engagement to the Morning Post tomorrow. Oh lord, it is nearly dark!  I must get you back to town at once. Caroline will have to take you in if Claire is not at home.”

“Just when I was perfectly comfortable,” mourned Lizzie. “Bertram, do you think you ought to go to Bumble's Green and make sure that Claire is all right?”

“No, minx, I do not. George is perfectly capable of taking care of her, and I have a feeling he will be delighted to do so. Come now, let me put on your bonnet.”

Naturally, the face turned up to his called for a kiss, so it was some minutes later that Molly was summoned from the kitchen to accompany her mistress back to London. Bertram demonstrated his prowess as a top sawyer by driving the admittedly sluggish job-horses all the way with the reins in his right hand.

His left arm was occupied elsewhere.

Chapter XX—George

George was prepared to swear that the Marquis of Bellingham, tall and dignified in his robes with his coronet perched on his white hair, had winked at him as he passed out of the Abbey in the monarch's train. His father had little liking for solemn ceremony and was outraged at the cost of the Coronation when the common people were suffering. Nonetheless, he meant to attend the banquet afterwards.  Not for the world, he said, would he miss the sight of Lord Howard of Effingham, a choleric gentleman, riding his ill-behaved horse into Westminster Hall in the middle of dinner.

The thought of the banquet made George realise that he was ravenous. He fell in with a couple of friends as the spectators filtered out of the Abbey, and he persuaded them to go with him to Long's ordinary for a rump and a dozen.

Full of beef and oysters, he walked home through the darkening streets a couple of hours later. Ahead of him the sky was brightened by the fireworks in Hyde Park.  The citizens of London were always as ready for a celebration as King George was to provide a spectacle. He wondered whether Claire and Lizzie were watching from their window.

As he stepped through the front door of Bellingham House, Jarvis materialised at his elbow with a silver salver.

“A letter, my lord, brought round by Miss Sutton's lad several hours since. Urgent, he said it was.” The butler's voice was reproachful. He had taken a liking to the Misses Sutton.