Elisabeth Fairchild (22 page)

“Do you know the duke then, Mr. Ferd?” Ursula asked.

“We are a-a-acquainted, after a f-fashion,” Beau acknowledged, pointedly ignoring the gurgling choke that Charley emitted.

“Give us your impressions of the man, if you please,” Nell coaxed.

Her sister agreed. “Yes. What think you of the duke?”

Beau squirmed beneath the increasing weight of his falsehoods. He was asked to describe himself now, and he could think of nothing commendable to remark upon. Charley had already painted a rosier picture than he himself might believe. What would a coachman have to say of him?

“He has a good eye for horseflesh, and can handle the r-r-reins well enough, although he will never be classed as the neck-or-nothing jumper that his f-father was thought to be.” He fell silent a moment. His throat constricted. He had not thought of his father much in the days he had passed in Nell’s company. He wondered what the old man would have thought of her. “A rare sort of girl”, he could almost hear him saying. “With a rare knowledge of horseflesh.”

Beau could feel the anticipation to hear more, prickling the hairs at the nape of his neck. He cleared his throat. “His grace likes dogs, and values f-friends and family. A-A-Above and beyond that, I’ve nothing to tell, other than that he has a-a-as much trouble expressing himself as I have.”

“I understand that he has been spotted in Brighton.” Ursula prodded. “Have you happened to see him while we have been here?”

Beau chewed a moment on the inside of his lip. Another lie to swallow. “Can’t say that I have.”

“Well!” Aurora flounced a bit in her seat. “While I can no longer with good conscience say that I hate such a man, I am still in no mood to forgive his slight of me, no matter that he is a duke, and my dear friendtrix’s brother besides.”

“And no more should you,” Charley advised, and in stretching his arm out, he managed to knock it up against Beau’s elbow. “He is a rascal to have gone off without so much as making your acquaintance. I advise you to cut him dead, should you have the misfortune of running onto him. Even a duke should not be allowed to get away with such charry behavior.”

The contemplative study that Beau fell into as a result of Nell’s opinion of the man she supposed him to be, did not lift until the carriage entered the long, rolling stretch of road that led from Clayton across the downs. There, his thoughtful expression was replaced by one of astonished panic. Heading their way, at a smart pace, came a fast moving entourage; five of the finest and most recognizable sets of satin-coated bits of blood and bone to be witnessed in all of England. The prime blooded horseflesh were pulling the latest, most well-sprung vehicles that money could buy, and each of these remarkable equipages tooled along the road occupied by a skilled whipster, all of them kitted out in matching white greatcoats, black, Allan-brimmed hats, and flashy yellow buttoneers the size of dinner plates.

The Whip Club, or the Four-In-Hand Club, as some had begun to refer to it, were on their way south to Brighton! Beau knew he was done for. There was no way he could run such a gauntlet without being recognized.

“Whoever might that be?” Aurora wondered while the horses and carriages were still some distance away.

Charley Tyrrwhit twisted in his seat to look. “Eee gad,” he gasped. “It’s the lads, Beau!”

“They are moving at a most remarkable pace,” Ursula observed. “Had we best pull over to let them pass?”

Aurora nudged her sister. “But, who are they, that we should give up the whole road to them?”

Fanella startled Beau in answering, “Unless my eyes deceive me, we are privileged enough to witness the approach of a few of the members of Catherine’s beloved Whip Club. I would guess that we see first, Mr. Mellish, then Petersham. I do not recognize the fellow driving the showy blacks, but the man at the rear is most assuredly. . .”

“Lord Barrymore,” her aunt provided, quite correctly.

Charley almost choked, he inhaled so abruptly.

“However can you know such a thing?” Aurora demanded of her aunt and her sister.

“Yes, how?” Charley wheezed. “I’d no idea you were familiar with the club members.”

Ursula became slightly defensive. “It is no great thing, once one learns the idiosyncratic color schemes these gentlemen effect. It is Lord Barrymore who is to have my gray, and only see, the last of the carriages is drawn by perfectly matched grays. Is he come to look at the horse, Mr. Tyrrwhit? Is that why so many of your friends are come to Brighton? They cannot all be in need of the salt water cure.”

Beauford did not have to look over his shoulder to comprehend that Charley’s amusement escalated at the same rate as did his concern.

“The lads always come down for the Season here,” Charley said jovially. “I daresay I’d best tell you . . .” he paused too significantly for it to have been an accident. Beau wondered if Charley meant to unmask him, but no, he meant to reveal something else entirely. Charley’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “The chap driving the blacks is Gentleman Jackson,” he said. “And the chubby fellow behind him is none other than the Prince of Wales.”

“Never say it is so!” Ursula gasped.

“And me with my hairindblown mess,” Aurora complained.

Beau wanted to laugh through his clenched teeth. His reputation was about to become far more of a mess that Aurora’s lovely locks. There was no way he could run the gauntlet of his friends without his identity being uncovered. How could he ever have guessed that the end to his relationship with Nell would come in such an attractive and familiar package? His time as coachman was fast drawing to a close. Nell would soon know him for the liar he was.

Beau prepared himself for the inevitable. He had an excellent view of his friend’s faces as they approached. Recognition dawned. Surprise accompanied the flash of hands as each gentleman in turn raised the rakish black hat. Potentially damning words slipped from one startled set of lips after another, like arrows launched to pierce his pride-- arrows that might kill all chance of success where Fanella Quinby was concerned.

“Beau!” The first whisked past.

“Ho, it ’s Beau and Charley!” Another verbal arrow missed the mark.

“Hallo chaps! Where’s the dog?”

“Damn, so this is where you’ve gotten yourself off to!”

“Headed the wrong way, aren’t you?”

Then, remarkably, they were past, and Charley was waving and shouting gleefully from the back of the carriage as though they had just won the Derby. “See you tomorrow at the masquerade, lads.”

Beau’s head reeled with the enormity of the close call he had just suffered. His eyes swung back to meet Charley’s in stunned disbelief. He slipped through Fate’s fingers for a second time! Charley laughed gustily. “Gad, what a surprise that was, eh Beau?”

When, having reached their destination, the women were engaged in looking at the attractive bay that was brought out for their inspection, Charley pulled Beau aside to wonder, in a loud whisper, “Lord, that was a close shave! When do you mean to give up this dreadful guise?”

Beau laughed. He was feeling incredibly fortunate as he admired the way in which Fanella examined the bay; ears, eyes and hooves, before directing the lad in taking him through his paces. She was possessed of a most discerning eye, this remarkable young woman!

He did not take his eyes off her as he admitted, “I have done Miss Quinby an injustice in so long perpetuating the lie of who and what I really am. You must realize that I would tell her all in this very moment, given but a moment alone with her.”

“Damned pleased I am to hear it! I do not know what has taken you so long as ’tis. No more mucking about. Devil a bit at Devil’s Dyke this afternoon, and I shall contrive to see that you have your moment alone with the chit,” Charley vowed.

Chapter Sixteen

Nell was vastly pleased with the bay. She was pleased, in fact, with the entire day, for she and Aurora always got along splendidly, and it had been far too long since she had shared female company other than her aunt’s.

Arrangements having been made for purchase and delivery of the horse, the hungry party set off on the relatively short drive to the Dyke House Inn, between the villages of Poynings and Fulking. There, Mr. Ferd performed his usual magic in making baskets of food, wine and water appear before the group set off on foot onto the South Downs, to view that natural phenomenon of clefted hls that the local people credited to the workings of a saint, in his confrontation with the devil; the Devil’s Dyke.

The weather was perfect; warm and cloudy, with just enough of a breeze to cool the sweated brow one might expect as a result of such an excursion.

And yet, Aunt Ursula could not content herself with perfection. Peering at the sky, she observed that it looked as if it might come on to rain later in the afternoon.

“Rain!” Charley Tyrrwhit scoffed. “Never,” he insisted. “Our luck is far too sound for that!”

Nell was pleased to notice that Beau Ferd took a long look at the sky, and apparently less certain of their luck than Charley, added three parasols to the load he already carried.

“May we assist in any way?” she stopped to ask, when Aurora would have set off after the others at a galloping pace.

The arresting blue eyes settled warmly on hers, blessing her with the admiration she so enjoyed witnessing. “How kind you are,” he said.

“Here, you cannot carry all of that,” Aurora agreed, and between the three of them, the burden was more reasonably divided.

Side by side the sisters set out, with Mr. Ferd right behind them. Nell was surprised, when Aurora leaned close to whisper, “He has a most engaging smile. Not wonder you are so taken with him, but dear sister, do guard your heart against his wiles. You must remind yourself the man is no more than a coachman.”

Nell held her peace. She had done just that a hundred times and more since making Mr. Ferd’s acquaintance. Aurora did not understand, and Nell had no idea how to enlighten her. How did one verbalize plethora of feelings and sensations that followed neither logic nor reason? Where might one find the words? She hadn’t the faintest idea.

“This is it, then,” Charley said, when they had walked as far as the beaten track would take them without plunging down into an abrupt swale, beyond which, rose an odd v-shaped cleft in the hills.

“Devil ’s Dyke!” He set down the basket he had taken from Aurora’s hands. “It is all that stands between us and the ocean.”

“And why is this dyke the devil’s?” Aurora asked, peering intently across the swale.

Unable to stop her eyes from straying in his direction whenever he was about, it was Beau whom Nell watched, though Charley answered.

“According to local legend, the gap below us was dug by the Devil, who wished to flood the low-lying areas of the Weald, with the waters of the Channel.”

“He was stopped. . .” Beau took up the tale, “. . . by the light of a candle, held up by a woman, who was curious enough to watch what the Devil was about.” The pale blue eyes settled on Fanella. “The Devil mistook the candle for the rising Sun, and stopped his digging.”

Aunt Ursula gazed at the horizon, but it was not the Devil’s Dyke, as it turned out, that so fascinated her. “Do you not think those clouds look as if they might hold rain?” she insisted.

Nell forced herself to look away from Mr. Ferd’s pale, laughing eyes.

“Nonsense,” Charley soothed. “We have been blessed with the devil’s own luck today. It will not rain.”

Fanella looked at the clouds and could not be so sure. It did look as if inclement weather might overtake them.

Charley was proven wrong. Their luck would seem to have run out. Rain it did. The
al fresco
luncheon was but half devoured when, with silent deceptiveness, fine, soft droplets began to mist down on them.

Raising the second of the three parasols, Aurora was quick to follow her, but Nell bade them go on, saying she would catch up to them as soon as the baskets were packed away. She stayed to help Beau and Charley stow away the remains of their feast. Charley remarked that perhaps he should go and see to the horses, for they had been taken out of the traces, and must be put back in again in order to carry them safely home. Grabbing up two of the hampers, he left them.

Nell felt awkward, left alone with Mr. Ferd, even if it was only in the task of gathering up the remainder of their provisions. The two worked in relative silence, seeming to understand the others intentions and purpose, without a word said, as if they communicated on a level that required no verbal interchange. The work went quickly, and yet, for all their mutual co-operation, there was a growing tension between them, in the lonely stillness of the spot that had so recently been alive with voices and laughter. As if in concert with her increasing uneasiness, the rain began to fall with intent.

Beau unfurled the third and last of the large, black domes, snapping it taut, just as Nell finished buckling the straps on the final basket. “I think you had best take advantage of the parasol, Miss Quinby.”