Fated Folly (6 page)

Clare turned on him.‘You have not enlisted my services, sir, and I would have refused had you done so. I don't approve of your serving Sir Rupert such a trick. Moreover, I believe it to be quite unnecessary, whatever Pippa may say.'

He laughed. ‘Oh, Pippa has taken a ridiculous notion into her head. I am the last man to whom Cousin Rupert would see her married.'

Clare eyed him, torn between a budding dislike of the man and her burning desire to know more about Sir Rupert Wolverley. She should not ask, but who was to tell her if Ashendon did not? She stifled a slight attack of conscience as curiosity won.

‘
Why?'

Ashendon guided her to the green-striped Chippendale sofa, conveniently situated with its back to the window, and Clare sat down. He took his seat beside her, adopting a confidential manner that repelled her so that she had to force herself to remain still as he leaned towards her.

‘
Because, Miss Carradale, I am the only person in the family who has dared to voice the suspicions of the rest.'

A ribbon of apprehension traced through Clare's veins, but she maintained her poise. ‘Suspicions of what, pray?'

‘
Ah, there you have me. If I were to reveal it all, I should be as despicable—' Clare saw his lips tighten and darkness cloud his eyes ‘—as he is himself.'

A sinking feeling struck at the pit of her stomach. The image of Sir Rupert's face, with its lush frame of dark hair, came into her mind. Severe, then lit by the transforming smile. Despicable? Sir Rupert Wolverley? Impossible! A quiver of swift fury ran through her.

‘
I don't believe it! You are saying it to put me against him.'

‘
You will believe what you wish, of course,' Ashendon returned, the smile no longer visible.

‘
Yes, I shall,' Clare said heatedly. ‘And I should never believe him capable of anything that might be so described.'

A laugh escaped the man. Brittle and harsh, an ugly sound that rippled in Clare's ears.

‘
How little you know of him.'

Clare hit back, stuttering in her anxiety to get the words out. ‘Well, it—it is true that I don't know him very well, but there is—there is such a thing as instinct.'

Ashendon's lip curled. ‘I fear you are in for a rude awakening, Miss Carradale. If you pursue the acquaintance, that is.'

There was nothing Clare desired more, but it would not do to say so. Already she had said too much, shown a too strong partiality. Pulling out of her unaccustomed annoyance, she managed a laugh as false as she now believed Ashendon's had been.

‘
That is not very likely. He is years older than I am.'

She saw disbelief in his face, and knew her defence had been too emphatic to backtrack now. Looking wildly around, she suddenly perceived her brother and Pippa in close conversation in the window embrasure, and a quick frown creased her brow. So that was it. She might have guessed it indeed. Ashendon had been intent on drawing her off so that the lovers might engage in sweet talk.

She turned back to Ashendon with a ready reproof on her lips, but before she could speak he rose.

‘
We must away, Pippa,' he called.

It was altogether too pat, Clare thought, as they made their farewells. And Justin was rather too eager to escape his sister's eye, was he not? Saying that he was going out to his club, he at once ran upstairs to his bedchamber to don suitable outdoor gear.

Clare watched him go and moved thoughtfully back into the morning-room, her mind buzzing. Was there more to this? A private colloquy in the old nursery; then between Ashendon and Justin; again between Justin and Pippa. Heavens, could it be—? Would they be so lost to all sense of propriety? Oh, drat, what should she do? Ought she to warn Sir Rupert? No, that would be altogether too disloyal to Justin—if he was innocent. Papa, then? Papa would not believe her.

But she must do something. Inspiration seized her and she rang the bell. To the footman who answered the summons, she announced that she had need of the page boy Dobbin Voy. At once.

***

 

The whisper came at her from the landing above as she climbed the stairs to her chamber.

‘
Psst! Miss Clare!'

Dobbin! Pausing on the stairs, Clare glanced quickly back to the floor below to check that her mama's door had closed behind her. Then, gathering up the skirts of her spotted muslin evening gown, she ran up to join him.

The page boy was waiting for her, tucked out of sight by Justin's chamber door, opposite her own. Clare put a finger to her lips, forestalling speech.

‘
Is my maid in my room?' she whispered.

‘
That Olive?' Dobbin grinned. ‘Nodding off by the kitchen fire she is.'

‘
Good. Let us hope she does not wake if I don't ring down. But we cannot talk here. Justin may hear us.'

‘
Not if I know it, he won't,' said Dobbin smugly.

Clare had crossed to the dressing-room door next to her chamber, but she paused to look back at the boy, a sliver of anxiety shooting through her. ‘Whatever do you mean, Dobbin?'

‘
Gorn off, Mr Justin has. Leastways, he took hisself back there.'

‘
Back where?'

‘
The Swan with Two Necks, Miss Clare.'

‘
The what?'

Dobbin grinned again. ‘Down Lad Lane it is. Ostler said as how the mail goes north from there.'

‘
Oh, I see. You mean it is a coaching inn?'

‘
That's what I said. That there Lord Ashingdon gets hisself a coach ordered this morning, for to go to Gretna.'

‘
Gretna Green? Oh, heavens, then I was right!'

For a moment she was paralysed with shock, her worst fears confirmed. She would stake her life that Lord Ashendon was not going to use that coach. Justin and Pippa had eloped! Drat them both. How could they be so stupid? And Ashendon. What was he about, helping his cousin to such a scandalous union? Oh, what would Sir Rupert say?

This last thought jerked her into action. Seizing the page boy's arm, she dragged him into her dressing-room and closed the door.

‘
Now tell me the whole, Dobbin. You followed Mr Justin?'

‘
Just like you told me, Miss Clare. Regular Robin Redbreast I was,' boasted Dobbin gleefully. ‘He never seen me, Mr Justin didn't.'

‘
Yes, that is excellent, Dobbin,' Clare said, controlling her natural impatience. ‘But how do you know it was Lord Ashendon who hired the coach?'

‘
Went off together, they did, this Lord Ashingdon and Mr Justin. In a hack.'

‘
And you managed to keep up?' Clare asked, infusing an admiring note into her voice.

Dobbin smirked. ‘Better nor that. Hopped on the back, I did.'

‘
Oh, well done!'

‘
I ain't no noddy,' Dobbin said proudly.

Clare was quick to agree with him, reflecting privately that anyone with the least degree of intelligence would have thought to come to her with this story hours ago instead of waiting until midnight. She only hoped it was not already too late.

Pictures were flitting through her mind: Pippa complaining of a headache tonight; Ashendon offering to escort her home. Heavens, he must have taken her straight to this Swan and Neck, or whatever it was called. And Justin would have met them there, for he had not accompanied his mother and sister to the party.

What should she do? She ought to wake Papa, or send a message to Sir Rupert. On the other hand, Dobbin might well have been mistaken. If he was, Sir Rupert would think she had played another prank, and Papa would be cross. No, she had better first find out the truth of it for herself. And perhaps, if it was so, she might just be in time to intercept them and thus save a deal of unpleasantness.

She turned urgently to the page boy. ‘Dobbin, go down at once and call up a hack. I will join you outside in a very few moments.'

Dobbin blinked, thinking wistfully of his bed. ‘Now, Miss Clare?'

‘
Yes, now.'

‘
But it's past midnight.'

‘
I know that,' Clare said impatiently. ‘It can't be helped. Don't argue with me, Dobbin, but do as I say at once. And don't tell anyone.' She opened the door and thrust the boy out of the room. ‘Quickly now, go!'

She did not stay to watch him depart, but whisked into her bedchamber, searching in her wardrobe with feverish hands for the thick woollen travelling cloak. No time to change. No matter, the cloak would provide adequate protection, she decided, throwing it about her shoulders. Devoutly trusting that Olive would remain dozing by the kitchen fire until she returned, she crept down the stairs.

It was almost completely dark, but for the feeble light coming up from the oil lamp on the table in the hall downstairs, and the flickering shadows cast by her own candle. Clare sped on tiptoe past both her parents' doors with a wary ear cocked for any sound from within. Not that she expected to hear anything. Papa must have gone to bed hours ago, although Mama would be reading for a while longer. The servants were all abed now that the ladies of the house had returned, and no one ever waited up for Justin.

As she slipped noiselessly out of the front door, and it clicked firmly shut, Clare realised that on her return she would be obliged to creep in at the servants' door with Dobbin. Very minxish, she thought, as a picture of Sir Rupert Wolverley's face sprang into her mind, and a muffled giggle escaped her. What would he think of this escapade?

The page boy was waiting for her beside the hackney he had fetched, and Clare got in, hustling Dobbin in with her. Thank heaven for his feeble wit. Not one of the other servants, male or female, could have been prevailed upon to permit her to venture out on this errand.

The remembrance of it swept away all other thoughts as anxiety came gnawing back. Would she be in time?

The Swan with Two Necks proved to be deep in the heart of the City, an area with which Clare, like most females of her class, was wholly unacquainted. She gazed about the yard in some surprise as she climbed out of the hackney carriage, for despite the lateness of the hour, there was still a good deal of activity going forward. Horses were being led to and fro, one coach was rumbling out while others stood empty, awaiting harnessing, and several gentlemen passed in and out of the inn door.

For a craven moment, Clare's heart almost failed her. She ought not to be here. A single female, and alone, but for a witless lad, at near one o'clock in the morning. Then she rallied. What did all that matter in the face of this dreadful elopement?

Squaring her shoulders, she drew her cloak more firmly about her, and marched determinedly into the inn, Dobbin at her heels. One room off the large hallway was still a blaze of light, and it seemed sensible to choose this one. As she entered, almost the first person she saw, lounging at his ease at one of the tables and quaffing from a tankard, was Lord Ashendon.

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

Sir Rupert Wolverley, dragged from sound sleep by a violent hand shaking his shoulder and an agitated twittering above his head, opened his eyes to the brightness of a candle flame and the shadowy features of his cousin behind it.

‘
Berinthia?' he mumbled vaguely. ‘What the devil—?'

‘
Oh, Rupert, wake up, pray,' begged Miss Flimwell throbbingly. ‘You must go after her at once or all is lost!'

He put up a hand to shade his eyes. ‘Go after her...after whom?'

‘
Pippa, of course. Oh, Rupert, she has gone—run off—eloped!'

‘
What?
'

Suddenly Rupert was wide awake and springing from the bed, Miss Flimwell moving hastily out of his way.

‘
When did she go?' he asked curtly as he reached for his dressing robe and shrugged it on. ‘Who discovered it? Her maid? What time is it now?'

His cousin, a twittering creature at the best of times, struggled to answer his barrage of questions, hurrying behind him as he speeded out of his room and up towards his niece's chamber on the floor above.

‘
Yes it was her maid. It must be gone five now, for the girl went in to light the fire in Pippa's room and found all in chaos. Oh, Rupert, she must have had it all planned. That headache!'

‘
Headache?'

‘
Oh, you don't know, of course. She came home early on account of it, you see. I would have brought her myself, but Lord Ashendon—'

Rupert halted on the stairs, turning so suddenly that his cousin had to grab at the rail for support.

‘
Ashendon?'

‘
He—he insisted on escorting her,' faltered Miss Flimwell.

A thud of anger attacked him. ‘Did he indeed?'

‘
I confess I was anxious, but he would not hear of my leaving the party, and he did bring her home. Only now I cannot think she had the headache at all.'

‘
A subterfuge, obviously.'