Miss Darby's Duenna (16 page)

“I’ll give it to ‘er maid, I will,” Peg promised, receiving the box from his hands.

“I thought maybe you was ‘er,” replied the young Lothario with a cocky grin.

“Pshaw! You thought I was a lady’s maid?”

“Lady’s maid? I thought you was Miss Darby!”

“Pshaw!” said Peg again, obviously pleased.

“Peg!” bellowed Cook. “These potatoes won’t peel themselves!”

Peg closed the door on her gallant, albeit not before receiving a broad wink and a slap on her derriere, then surrendered her burden to Charles, the footman.

“Give it to Mary,” she said. “It belongs to ‘er mistress.”

Charles dutifully carried the package up the back stairs to the family’s bedchambers on the first floor, where Mary was hanging the young ladies’ freshly laundered gowns back in their wardrobes. Had he stopped to consider the matter, he would have recalled that Mary currently had
two
mistresses, as she was serving both Miss Darby and Miss Hawthorne in the capacity of lady’s maid. But as it was Sir Harry who paid his wages, it was not unnaturally Sir Harry’s sister who came to mind. And so Charles handed the package to Mary, along with the information that it belonged to Miss Hawthorne. For her part, Mary laid it on the bed, where it waited for some time until Georgina returned to her bedchamber, at which time the lady’s maid pointed it out to her.

“For me?” cried Georgina with all of a young girl’s delight at being the recipient of unexpected largesse. Eagerly she untied the strings and lifted the lid. But far from solving the mystery, the contents of the bandbox merely added to it, for inside lay a domino of white silk.

Raising this interesting garment for a better look, Georgina saw a piece of paper flutter to the ground. This, when she had broken the seal and read it, proved to be the most mysterious of all, for it bore a cryptic message:

Miss D., Midnight at the pavilion. Do not fail me, or a gentleman of our acquaintance—or is it a lady?—will suffer. Yrs., etc., M.

Georgina’s eyes grew round with amazement as the significance of these words began to dawn. Why, Lord Mannerly knew about Harry, and was blackmailing Olivia! But Olivia was only the younger daughter of a colonel, and had no money of her own—at least, not when compared to Lord Mannerly’s vast holdings. What, then, could he want from her? Georgina could only think of one thing, and if that were indeed what he was after, then it was no wonder Harry had taken the marquess in such dislike.

And yet, thought Georgina, stroking the silken folds of the domino, she could not believe Lord Mannerly utterly beyond redemption. Surely if someone—herself, perhaps—pointed out the error of his ways, the marquess would listen and repent.  At any rate, it was clearly her Christian duty to try. But how to go about it? She could hardly broach the subject at the tea table, and at any rate, Mannerly never paid her any attention when Olivia was present.

She studied the note in her hand, as the beginnings of a plan began to form in her mind. But of course! If she wanted to see Lord Mannerly alone, she had only to be at the pavilion at midnight. No wonder Olivia had been so desperate to attend the masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens!

Quickly, she folded the domino and placed it back in the bandbox, then resealed the note with wax from her own writing table and tucked it among the white satin folds. Olivia would no doubt be expecting this package, and it would never do to let her know it had fallen into the wrong hands.

“Mary,” she said, summoning her maid, “this lovely domino belongs to Miss Darby, but I have conceived such a fondness for it that I simply must have one for myself. Place an order with Madame Girot, and tell her I shall need it by Monday. Oh, and one more thing. When you return the bandbox to Miss Darby, you need not mention that it was first delivered to me.”

“Yes, miss,” breathed a wide-eyed Mary, bobbing a curtsy. She had not forgotten Miss Darby’s rendezvous at Kensington Gardens with a man who was
not
her fiancé, and now it seemed that Miss Hawthorne was involved in some deep dealings of her own.  The clandestine activities of the young ladies, when added to Lady Hawthorne’s queer starts and the rumors that flew about the servant’s quarters concerning her, led Mary to the inevitable conclusion that the Quality were a very strange lot.  Still, where else might a plain country girl earn the exorbitant sum of twenty guineas per year? Taking the bandbox from her young mistress, she exited the room, resolving to keep her eyes open and her tongue between her teeth.

* * * *

At precisely two o’clock on Friday afternoon in Laura Place, as Lady Hawthorne and Miss Hunnicutt were having tea, their repast was interrupted by a pounding on the door.

“See who is at the door, Mildred,” said Lady Hawthorne, refilling her delicate Sevres cup.

The long-suffering Miss Hunnicutt obediently set her own cup aside and rose to answer the door. There, to her surprise, she saw a weary and travel-stained courier and beyond him a sweating and winded horse.

“Lady Hawthorne?” panted the courier.

“No, I am her companion,” said Miss Hunnicutt.

He held out a folded and sealed sheet of vellum. “Message from London, ma’am. From Miss Darby.”

Miss Hunnicutt thanked him and took the missive, then instructed him to go around to the kitchen, where Cook might give him a bite to eat and, perhaps, an apple for his poor beast. Having seen him on his way, she returned to the tea table.

“A message from London, my lady,” she said, delivering this epistle to the dowager. “From Miss Darby.”

“Darby? Darby? Do I know anyone named Darby?”

“I believe your grandson’s fiancée is a Darby, is she not?” suggested Miss Hunnicutt timidly.

“I believe you are right. Her father was a military man, if memory serves. But what can she have to say to me?”

She broke the seal and spread the single sheet. Miss Hunnicutt watched expectantly as Lady Hawthorne scanned the page, her eyebrows descending lower and lower in a frown of increasing ferocity. When at last she reached the bottom of the page, she tossed the missive onto the table and rose with an abruptness that set the tea cups clattering.

“Mildred, pack your bags at once. We must go to London.”

“Oh, dear,” fretted Miss Hunnicutt, tugging at her ear. “Do you think I may be losing my hearing? For a moment I thought you said—”

“At once, Mildred!” commanded Lady Hawthorne in a voice that brooked no argument. “I am going
Out!”

Chapter Fourteen

If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well It were done quickly.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
Macbeth

Over the next few days, Olivia was alternately torn between dreading the approaching
denouement,
and wishing it might hurry so that she could do what she had to do and be done with it. Consequently, time seemed to either fly by or stand still, depending on her mood of the moment.

On Sunday, the Hawthorne party attended the morning service at the Chapel Royal, and not even the sight of the Prince Regent in attendance was enough to lift Olivia’s flagging spirits. In truth, she found herself much in need of spiritual sustenance, and by a striking coincidence (or perhaps divine inspiration), the sermon text, taken from the gospel of John, might have been selected with Olivia’s plight in mind.

‘“Greater love hath no man,” intoned the bishop, “than this: that a man lay down his life for his friend.’”

As she listened to the poignant lines, Olivia was obliged to fumble through her reticule in search of a handkerchief with which to blot her moist eyes.   The bishop, seeing this response from one of his congregation, was immensely gratified, and was heard to say later that it was the first time he could recall one of his hearers having been moved to tears.

Sir Harry, seated on Olivia’s right, also observed her emotional response, and was more than ever convinced that his love had got herself into very deep waters. In view of the scripture which had evoked such a response, he wondered just what sacrifice Olivia was being called upon to make in the name of love. He could only think of one such oblation which Lord Mannerly might desire of a young lady, and accordingly entertained distinctly unchristian thoughts toward the marquess.

Had he been less engaged in this mental exercise, he might have noticed that his younger sister, seated on his other side, was equally dewy-eyed.

* * * *

At last the fateful evening arrived, and at precisely eight o’clock, Mrs. Brandemere’s carriage rolled to a stop before the Curzon Street house.  The coachman rapped sharply on the door knocker, and a moment later Olivia and Georgina glided across the hall toward the door, Georgina wearing her gray satin domino, Olivia in a white one which Sir Harry could not recall having seen before. He was struck with the thought that she looked somehow bridal, in spite of her pale face and haunted eyes. This melancholy reflection led him to wonder morosely just whose bride she would eventually be.

“Now, remember,” he admonished, following the two young ladies as quickly as his tight slippers would allow, “stay in well-lighted areas, and keep Mrs. Brandemere in sight at all times. I begin to wish I had never given my consent to this outing. Lady Greenaway was quite right when she said they were not at all the thing.”

“I promise, you will not regret it,” said Olivia, her voice curiously solemn for such a festive occasion. She followed Georgina to the door, then paused and turned back, drinking in the sight of Sir Harry in his ridiculous garb as if she might never see him again.

“Olivia?” he asked, returning her gaze with a puzzled one of his own. “What is it?”

Olivia shook her head. “Nothing. Just—good night.”

Sir Harry stood at the open door and watched until the carriage disappeared into the fog, then swung into action.

“Coombes!” he bellowed, tugging on the bell-pull with such violence that he nearly ripped it from the wall. “Hail me a hackney at once, and tell Higgins to be ready to accompany me in five minutes!”

* * * *

Upon her arrival at Vauxhall, Olivia found the popular pleasure gardens strangely altered since her previous visit.  To be sure, the colorful Chinese lanterns were the same, as were the wonders of the Grand Cascade and the succulent, paper-thin slices of ham available in the various supper-boxes lining the Grand Walk; the difference was in the appearance and conduct of the pleasure-seekers. Tonight the Gardens teemed with cloaked and masked figures, and the tree-lined walks rang with loud, ill-bred shrieks of laughter. A squealing shepherdess ran past with a harlequin in hot pursuit, and Olivia began to see why masquerades were frowned upon by the discerning. When a cloaked figure passed by, brushing up against Olivia in a manner that could only be deemed familiar, that affronted young lady recalled Sir Harry’s parting advice, and wished that she could follow it.

Mrs. Brandemere was an exacting duenna, only allowing her charges to dance with gentlemen whom she recognized; however, after three or four cups of rack punch, her chaperonage grew noticeably more lax. Disturbing as this might have been under normal circumstances, tonight Olivia could only be grateful, as it would make it easier for her to keep her midnight assignation.    However, her plans changed unexpectedly when a servant delivered a note. It was sealed with red wax, although it bore no markings which might have identified its sender. Separating herself from her chaperone, Olivia broke the seal and spread open the sheet. The message thereon was brief and to the point:

Miss D., There has been a change in plans. Meet me at the end of the Grand Walk at midnight. Yrs., etc., M.

Olivia read these lines with dismay, for the new point of rendezvous was considerably removed from the old, and it would take longer to reach from the supper-box where they were now situated. Glancing at her companions, Olivia found Mrs. Brandemere helping herself to yet another plate of ham, while Miss Brandemere flirted with a tall figure in a scarlet domino. Georgina had been solicited to stroll, and Olivia could see her gray-clad form taking a turn before the Rotunda on the arm of her escort, wisely remaining within view of her chaperone. Quickly, before her courage failed her, Olivia stole out of the supper-box and was soon swallowed up by the crowd milling about the Grand Walk.

Although the central part of the Gardens was overrun with masked revelers, the crowd thinned considerably once Olivia passed the pavilion. To be sure, there were still people about, but most of these seemed to be couples intent upon dalliance or, more disturbing, bucks on the prowl for unwary maidens. Several times Olivia had the distinct impression that she was being followed, but when she turned to look behind her, she saw nothing but anonymous maskers engrossed in their own pleasures, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

At last she reached her destination. Here the lights were fewer and farther between, and the trees lining the walk cast eerie shadows across her path. A Grecian temple had been erected at the end of the walk, and before this structure a tall entity in a black domino awaited. Olivia paused, waiting for Mannerly to approach her, but he showed no sign of doing so. At last, hesitantly, she closed the distance between them.

“My lord?” she asked in a voice that shook slightly.

The man in the black domino turned toward her, and that part of his face which was not hidden by a black half-mask was completely unfamiliar. “Why, no, sweeting, but I’d like to be!”

And before Olivia could protest, she found herself caught up in a smothering embrace.

“Unhand me at once, sir!” she demanded with perhaps more bravado than she felt. “I am looking for someone—”

“You’ve found me!” declared her gallant, punctuating this statement by pressing hot, moist lips to hers.

Olivia, stamping ineffectually at his foot with the heel of her fragile kid slipper, was unaware of the newcomer who tapped her captor on the shoulder. Not until she found herself abruptly released did she become aware of this second gentleman, also clad in a black domino, who seized the would-be Lothario by the throat, swung him around, and delivered a bruising left to the stranger’s jaw.