Two Corinthians (27 page)

George took the note and went into the drawing room.  Tillie was reading a Minerva Press novel she had borrowed from Hookham's. He kissed her and enquired after the adventures of the heroine, with which she had been keeping him up to date.

“Never mind Fidelia, you provoking boy,” she said. “What does Lizzie's note say?  I have been on tenterhooks.  Indeed, I was tempted to read it, and had it been in Claire's writing I should certainly have done so, for if she claimed urgency I'd not hesitate to credit it.”

He opened the paper, read it and frowned.

“She claims Claire has been abducted by a villain and taken to Bumble's Green. What the devil is the chit up to?  Supposing it to be true, how should she know where they went?”

“And who is the villain?  How intriguing!  It sounds like a Cheltenham tragedy.”

“A Banbury tale, more like. However, there may be some kernel of truth and I shall have to investigate.” He strode to the chimney-piece and pulled the bell rope. The butler popped in so quickly that it was plain he had been hovering just outside. “Jarvis, tell Slade to set out my riding clothes, and send to the mews to saddle Orpheus and bring him round immediately.” He shook his head ruefully. “I shall feel a proper nodcock riding
ventre à terre
to Portman Square to find them sitting at the dinner table.”

~ ~ ~

The only light visible at the Suttons' house was in the basement. Impatient, George hitched Orpheus's reins to the railing, ran down the area steps and hammered on the door. Enid greeted him with surprise.

“There's no one 'ere but me and Auntie, my lord,” she said. “Miss Claire went off to Bumble's Green wiv Alfie, and Miss Lizzie's gone to stay at the Marchmonts'.”

“Miss Claire went to Bumble's Green?  What time was that?”

“I dunno. What time did Miss Claire leave, Auntie?”

Mrs Rumbelow heaved herself out of her chair and came to the door while George fumed at the delay.

“Musta bin nearer four than three, my lord,” she decided. “There weren't no gigs at the livery when our Alfie went round. Then that Mr 'Arrison come by and Miss Claire drives off wiv 'im.”

So the villain of the piece was Horace Harrison.  A tuppenny-ha'penny rogue, but George did not like to think of Claire alone with him with only Alfie along to play propriety. Where Lizzie's note came into the picture he did not pretend to guess.

His sense of urgency intensifying, he thanked the servants and cantered off into the night.

Before the last light had faded from the western sky a full moon rose, so he made good time though the branching, twisting River Lea prevented riding cross-country. As he passed Waltham Abbey, he heard a clock strike ten.  Late enough for his poor darling if she was fending off Horrid Horace's advances, but not so late that he could not return her to Portman Square in time to save her reputation. She had shared Orpheus's back with him before.

Was that the moment when he had fallen in love with her?

The fragrance of roses met him as he turned into the drive. Claire and roses—he would grow them by the acre in Dorset, and his mother's garden in Northumberland would thrive at her touch.  His decision was made. Pomeroy had left it too late and was about to lose another bride to a Winterborne.

The only visible light shone from the kitchen window and George remembered that most of the house was not yet furnished. Avoiding the square of lamplight, he led Orpheus round to the stables. Even the sight of Lady Harrison's barouche and pair could not deter him from seeing to his mount, but never before had that noble creature's care been so skimped. No more than three minutes later he strode into the kitchen.

Alfie was sitting at the table, his carroty head pillowed on his arms. He looked up sleepily; his face was tear-stained. Whatever mischief was brewing here, the lad seemed to be an unwilling accomplice.

“Where is Miss Claire?” demanded George harshly.

Alfie burst into fresh tears. “Oh, Mr Lord,” he sobbed, “she's in the Ockles' room. I din't want to, honest. Miss Lizzie told me to.”

“Told you to do what?”

“She said I mun lock Miss Claire in wi' the gemmun.  She said it'd make Miss Claire happy in the end.”

George seethed with anger. What kind of rig was Lizzie running?  If any harm came to Claire from this night's doings it must all be laid to her account.

“Show me,” he ordered.

Alfie wiped his nose on his sleeve, picked up the lamp and led the way, snivelling. When they reached the door to the Copples' chamber, he produced a large key from his pocket and unlocked it. George opened it and stepped in.

His gaze fell at once on the bed, where his beloved lay bathed in moonlight pouring through the high windows.

“
Clair de lune,”
he murmured.

He glanced about. There was no sign of Horace. He went round to the other side of the bed, stepping softly, and even peered under it. Nothing.  He opened the wardrobe.

The unfortunate Mr Harrison blinked up at him.  A large handkerchief stopped his mouth and he was bound hand and foot with strips of white material. The topaz in his neckcloth winked in the flickering lamp light.

George guffawed. He could not help himself. Somehow his fragile Claire had overcome this sorry fop, tied him in knots and deposited him in the wardrobe, a most fitting place. He roared with laughter.

Suddenly the light dimmed. As George turned, he saw the door closing and then he heard the key turn in the lock.

“Damnation!” he swore. The poor, confused half-wit was still carrying out Lizzie's instructions, and now he had a third fish in his net.

“I fear it is not the least use calling him,” said a soft voice behind him.

Woken by his laughter, Claire was sitting up.  The moonlight was bright enough to see the drowsy droop of her eyelids, and that she was smiling at him. He shut the door of the wardrobe on the pop-eyed Horace and went to sit on the edge of the bed. She slipped her hand into his. His pulse quickened.

“You were laughing,” she said wonderingly.

“At your erstwhile suitor, my darling. I found I had been worrying about you quite unnecessarily. How did you manage it?”

“All I did was tie him up and put him in there.  Alfie tipped him a settler before he locked the door.”

“Somehow, on your lips boxing cant has a delightful ring,” George mused, studying her mouth.

“I had to tear a perfectly good lawn petticoat to tie him up with,” Claire went on.

Involuntarily, George's gaze moved towards her ankles.  On the way, having previously not stirred from her face, it caught something more significant.

“He tore your dress!” he cried, outraged.

Her clasp on his hand prevented his jumping up to wreak vengeance on Horace. Her other hand, which should have risen in automatic modesty to cover her breast, instead touched his lips.

“Hush,” she said. “It was an accident. It caught on his pin.” Unexpectedly she giggled. “That was when I kicked his shins, and then Alfie hit him.”

Breathing hard, he gathered her into his arms. “You'll have to marry me,” he muttered into her ear.

“Do you mind?” she asked, but her arms were about his waist.

“There is nothing in the world I want more.”  He pulled back a little to look into her eyes, silvered by the moon. “I love you, Claire.”

She sighed. “I did not dare to hope. Only there is one thing, George...”

“What?”  A sense of foreboding clutched at his heart.

“I love you too. And I do not want to share you with...with ladybirds, or even with innocent flirts.”

“You shall not. You are all I want or need. I promise you that since I first met you not even the fairest Paphians have tempted me. I know, for I went looking.”

“Why?”  She was puzzled.

With a groan of remembered frustration, he pulled her closer. “Because I wanted you so much, and I could not have you.  It's going to be a long night, beloved, but we shall be married tomorrow.”

“I want you too, George. At least, when you touch me I feel shaky inside?”  Her voice was shy, trembling with emotion, with suppressed passion and, he thought, with fatigue.

“We have the rest of our lives before us.”  He rocked her gently. “I cannot believe you are going to be mine.  Try to sleep now, so that the morning comes sooner.”

“I will lie down, if you will hold me.  Don't let me go.” Already her eyes were closing.

He was filled with wonder at her sweet surrender.  She dared to trust him, this girl, this woman betrayed by her own parents from whom she should have learned to trust. He helped her to a more comfortable position and stretched beside her, his arm about her. Pale in the moonlight, her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids and her temples cried out for kisses, but he did not dare.

It was going to be a long night.

George was woken by tentative knocking on the door, the sound of the key turning, the light of a lamp. He was lying on his side, his left arm flung across Claire's back as she lay face down beside him. They were both fully dressed and on top of the covers, and he was damned if he was going to pretend he had been sleeping on the floor.

He blinked at the light and groaned. “Pomeroy!  What the devil brings you here?”

“Lizzie,” said Bertram succinctly.

“I warn you, I shan't let you call me out.”

“I don't mean to. I'm going to marry Lizzie. She had sudden qualms about whether Claire would want to marry you.”

“Oh yes, she does. Don't you, my love?”

Claire stirred. “George?” she asked sleepily, then turned and buried her face in his shoulder.

He held her close. “So this is Lizzie's doing?”

“Yes.” Failing any other furniture, Bertram came and sat down on the edge of the bed. He explained Lizzie's plot, how it had gone awry when Claire interrupted the writing of the notes and they had been addressed wrong. “But I find it is Lizzie I want to marry after all,” he ended simply.  “And I have suspected for some time that you were head over ears for Claire. Only after Amaryllis and your brother, I could not give her up to you.”

“Why do you think I did not declare myself long since?” George demanded. “I meant to give you until tomorrow to make up your mind.”

“I meant to propose to Claire tomorrow.  Lizzie's fiasco has saved our bacon at the eleventh hour.”

“You love her?”

“I am besotted with her, or I should be at home beating her. You do not know the worst:  she forgot to tell Alfie to release you in the morning. I had a devil of a time getting the key off him.”  He handed it over.

“Thanks, but I regret to inform you that you do not know the worst either. Your charming cousin is in the wardrobe.” Grinning in satisfaction as Bertram's jaw dropped, George explained Horrid Horace's presence and his current predicament. “So I'd be grateful if you'll take him with you,” he added.

“By all means.” Bertram took the lamp to the wardrobe, opened it and stared down in disgust at his miserable cousin. “You mean to stay here, then?” he threw over his shoulder as he dragged the miscreant out and untied him.

“Yes. Claire is exhausted. You don't happen to be acquainted with any bishops, do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. An uncle of mine, devilish chap. He's in Town for the Coronation. I'll get you a special license first thing tomorrow.”

“I'd appreciate it. Now remove your cousin, if you would, and close the door behind you, there's a good fellow.”

Bertram departed with a wave, followed by Mr Harrison, hobbling.

George dropped a tender kiss on the top of Claire's head and went back to sleep.  

Copyright © 1989 by Carola Dunn

Electronically published in 2001 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.