The Counterfeit Gentleman (15 page)

“I have never lived in Lady Letitia’s world—” he began, but Bethia interrupted.

“Then how do you explain our presence here?”

“Lady Letitia has, on occasion, seen fit to enter
my
world.”

Bethia found his statement harder to believe than every
thing he had told her previously, but looking up into his
eyes, she was forced to conclude that he was telling her
nothing but the simple truth.

“Why is it,” she asked ruefully, “that every question I
manage to persuade you to answer only creates more ques
tions in my mind?”

Before he could reply—if indeed he even intended to an
swer—the door was opened, and an old lady entered the
room with a vitality and energy that belied her years.

“Digory, my dear boy, I am truly delighted to see you.”
Instead of giving him her hand, Lady Letitia threw her arms
around his neck, then pulled his head down and kissed him on the cheek, quite as if he were her favorite grandson.

Then turning to Bethia, the old lady inspected her from
head to toe. “And you have brought along Miss Pepperell.”

Bethia was astonished that her hostess knew her name,
but then it was commonly understood in London that Lady
Letitia knew everything about everybody.

With what could only be termed a mischievous smile, the
elderly lady said, “I can only suppose you have come to
embroil me in another adventure, and I must say, I shall be
glad of it. London is decidedly flat after Marseilles.”

“As much as I hate to disappoint you, I sincerely hope
that this adventure is all but over,” Digory said, pulling out
a chair for his hostess. Then seating Bethia on her right, he
took his own place on Lady Letitia’s left. “But I am afraid
at this point we do still need your help.”

“You know you may depend on me for anything,” she
said.

Digory was silent for a moment, then he said, “Miss Pep
perell and I need to be married as quickly as possible, and the marriage must be above question. For that reason, we must secure her aunt’s permission rather than simply elop
ing.”

Lady Letitia turned to Bethia and said, “If any other man
had said ‘need to,’ I would have assumed that the bride-to-
be had been compromised—even seduced. But I know Digory too well to believe he would take advantage of a young
lady. So perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what
adventures you have been having that have brought you to me under these circumstances.”

Before Bethia could reply—and she was not at all sure
she could relate the story to a total stranger—the butler en
tered, accompanied by three footmen, each carrying loaded
trays that gave off tantalizing aromas, reminding Bethia
that they had left the inn without breaking their fast.

The dishes were lined up on the sideboard, except for
one plate, which was almost entirely covered by an exceed
ingly large beefsteak. It was placed in front of Digory.

Owens then filled a second plate with more normal
breakfast fare and set it in front of Lady Letitia.

“And what would the young lady prefer?”

“Just toast and hot chocolate,” Bethia said, still feeling
quite intimidated by her surroundings. “I am not really hun
gry.”

“Nonsense, child,” Lady Letitia said. “In my experience, when one goes adventuring, one builds up a remarkable ap
petite.”

Bethia’s stomach chose that moment to growl, making it
a bit difficult to continue claiming lack of hunger.

At a nod from her hostess, the butler filled a third plate with assorted viands and placed it in front of Bethia. Then
he and the footmen withdrew, closing the door behind
them.

The food was excellently prepared, and eating it gave
Bethia an excuse not to talk, but dawdle though she might,
eventually she reached the point that she could not swallow
another morsel. Raising her eyes from her plate, she saw
that Lady Letitia was again looking at her expectantly.

“I am sure Mr. Rendel can explain what has happened
better than I can,” Bethia said, casting him a look of en
treaty.

But he did not come to her rescue. Instead he said, “On
the contrary, all I can tell would be hearsay. No, you had
best tell her yourself.”

Anger, Bethia discovered, was a great loosener of
tongues. Thoroughly aggravated with Digory, she turned to
her hostess and began her story. “It all started with my grandfather’s will.”

Lady Letitia was a good listener, but the more Bethia talked, the more powerful her memories became, and she
was shaking with emotion by the time she reached the part
of the story where the villains had thrown her overboard.

This time Digory responded to her silent plea for help,
and he continued the story from there, describing their
failed attempt to capture one of the kidnappers alive.

“Well,” Lady Letitia said once the story was told, “I
must say I envy you.”

“Envy me? But I was nearly drowned,” Bethia said.

“And you are probably thinking I belong in Bedlam,” the old lady said with a smile. “But although I have never come
that close to dying, I have been bored nearly to death for
more years than I care to remember. And having gone adventuring with Digory, I have discovered physical danger
gives one a new zest for life. If you will pardon the cliché,
all’s well that ends well. You have survived, and with time,
I am sure you will likewise come to see that even if you
could go back and change things, you would not have had
events happen any other way.”

If she could change things? Bethia had spent so many
months wishing her grandfather had written his will differ
ently, and yet...

Looking across the table at Digory, she had to admit that
no, she would not have had anything happen differently if it
meant that she would never have met him.

Having faced down the dragon—Lady Letitia as it
were—and come through unscathed, Bethia still found
herself quite dismayed at the prospect of explaining things
to her aunt. And as the coach rumbled through the streets, bringing her closer and closer to the actual confrontation,
Bethia realized that she had not the faintest idea what to
say. The more she thought back over her recent adventures, the more she realized that not a one of them was fit for her
aunt’s ears.

Her niece had been rescued from certain death by a
smuggler? Utterly preposterous! She had slept in the same
cottage with him without a chaperone? Too shocking for
words! She had traveled alone in a closed carriage with
him? Quite scandalous! She had twice shared a room at an inn with him? Beyond belief!

No, if Bethia even mentioned the half of what she had
gone through, her aunt would be so horrified at the gross
impropriety of it all that she would never consent to the
marriage.

As if he could read her thoughts, Digory turned to her
when the coach pulled to a stop and said, “If you prefer, I
will do the explaining when we see your aunt.”

“I shall be more than happy to leave everything to you,” Bethia said, feeling nothing but relief that he would be taking the burden off her shoulders.

“Which leaves us with the problem of smuggling you
into the house. It might be best if you waited in the carriage
until I signal you that it is safe to enter.”

“Do you really think the servants will be fooled? By now
they must all know that I am not really sick in my room,
and when I miraculously return on the same day and at the
same hour when you also first appear on the scene, then it
will not be difficult for them to conclude that my return is somehow connected with you.”

“But on the other hand,” Digory pointed out, “if they do not actually see the two of us together, it will be easier for them to pretend that you have not been in my company.”

And to that she had no reply, because she recognized the
truth in what he said.

* * * *

Knowing that surprise alone was often sufficient to carry
the day, Digory did not wait for the footman who opened
the door to ask his name and business. “I wish to speak to Lady Clovyle,” he said, his tone unbearably supercilious.

Then before the man could make the usual polite excuses
and shut the door in his face, Digory pushed past him and entered the house without being given leave to do so.

The servant opened his mouth to protest, but Digory
forestalled him by handing over his top hat. “My business
is most urgent,” he said when the man started to stammer
something. “Please inform your mistress at once that I am here.”

When the man still hesitated, Digory glared at him, and
his expression was ferocious enough that the poor man visi
bly quailed in his shoes, and with a last few incoherent
stammers, he edged his way around Digory and vanished in
the direction of the back stairs.

As soon as the footman was out of sight, Digory opened
the front door and signaled to Bethia, who hurried to join
him, her hooded cloak once more pulled low over her face.

She caught his arm, but before she could speak, they
heard sounds of someone approaching.

“Wait in here,” he whispered, shoving her bodily into a
small room at the front of the house. He pulled the door al
most shut, leaving it open a mere crack so that Bethia
would be able to hear what transpired.

The footman had not sought out his mistress, but had
provided himself instead with the assistance of the butler,
whose stately bearing made it obvious that Digory was
about to be cast out into the cold
...
or so the two men
thought.

“Might I inquire what business you have with Lady
Clovyle?” the butler said pompously.

“My business is of a private nature,” Digory said, his
tone quite bland.

“Lady Clovyle is not receiving guests at this time. I sug
gest you return at a later hour, Mister ... Mister...?”

Digory did not give his name, nor did he take back his
top hat, which the footman was smugly holding out to him.
Instead he went to the door of the room in which Bethia
was hiding. “I shall wait in here while you inform Lady
Clovyle that I wish to speak with her.”

Pulling the door shut behind him, he pressed his ear to
the panel and could hear low voices on the other side. But
no one attempted to enter the room, and after a while he
heard footsteps going up the stairs, from which he surmised that his efforts to intimidate the servants had been adequate.

“You had best conceal yourself,” he said, and Bethia
looked around, then ducked behind the drapes.

* * * *

Lady Clovyle sat propped up against her pillows, sipping
a cup of hot chocolate. Already her head was aching, and she was tempted to remain in bed all day. Really, it was
vastly inconsiderate of her niece to disappear the way she had. There was something so common—so
vulgar—
about
being put in a position where she had to fob people off with
lies about Bethia’s having a slight fever.

Sooner or later someone was bound to suspect—there
was always some busybody who positively
delighted
in fer
reting out such scandals—and the strain of waiting in
hourly expectation of exposure was becoming unbearable. How could her niece, who despite her stubborn streak had
never been in any way inconsiderate, have done something
so thoughtless as to vanish?

There was a light scratching at the door, and then a maid
poked her mobcapped head in and said, “My lady?”

“Yes, yes, do come in,” Lady Clovyle said crossly.
“What is it?”

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but there is a man
below.”

Instantly, the nagging headache was replaced by a sick
feeling in Lady Clovyle’s middle. The time of reckoning
was apparently at hand. “A man?”

“A
strange
man,” the maid repeated, her eyes wide. “Mr.
Uppleby says as how the man says as how he’s got urgent
business with you. Mr. Uppleby says as how if you want, he will get Charlie and Joe and John Coachman to throw
the man out.”