Anita Mills (9 page)

“I wish he had stayed in France!” Margaret declared fervently. “Your pardon, Miss Morland—I should not have said that. ’Tis just that … well …” She colored uncomfortably. “I know I should not say it, but—”

“Miss Mitford, I assure you there is no need to explain to me.”

“Papa and Aunt Charlotte say I am but missish, but I should rather die than wed with Mr. Deveraux! There, I
have
said it!” the girl declared dramatically. “But they cannot understand that I would hate being married to him, Miss Morland.” Then, perceiving that she had disclosed too much, Margaret turned her attention to the green gown. “Do try it on, I beg of you.”

“Oh, I could not … my hair.” Anne touched her still-damp hair. “I have but bathed and washed it. Really, I should not wish to spot the dress.”

“Pooh. If it suits you, you may have it.”

“Well…” Unable to deny that she longed for it, Anne worked at the hooks on the back of her ruined dress. “Do you mind, Miss Mitford?” she asked finally.

“Of course not! Here …” The girl moved behind her and deftly unfastened them. “This must have been a lovely dress once. I have always liked the silk nankeens myself, for they hang so nicely, if one has the figure for them. Though I cannot think I would wish to travel in such a gown. I should freeze, you know.”

“Yes. Yes, it was a trifle cold,” Anne admitted. “But it was quite the best thing I owned, and I did not expect to journey nearly so far. And when I began, I had a heavy shawl.”

Margaret surveyed the dress again, then sighed, “ ’Tis a shame, for ’tis quite beyond repair.”

Unable to bear the other girl’s sympathy, Anne pulled her gown over her head and turned away to discard it. Straightening, she adjusted the new petticoat from Miss Porter’s. Margaret Mitford lifted the twilled cotton and hung it around her neck. Stepping back shyly, she waited for Anne to put it on.

“ ’Tis the color for you, Miss Morland—indeed, ’tis not too far off-shade from your own.”

Anne stared at her reflection in the cheval mirror for a long moment before she dared to speak. The dress was rather plain, with a demure rounded neckline, plain sleeves that ended above her elbows, and a skirt that fell straight to her ankles. Its only adornment consisted of a velvet band of a darker hue that crossed beneath her breasts. Yet, despite the circles under her eyes, despite the ragged mop of hair that clung to her forehead, she had to admit die dress looked quite good on her. “I couldn’t, Miss Mitford,” she managed finally.

“Nonsense. While you are here, ’twill be like having a sister again. Indeed, should not not mind it, I’d be called Meg. Miss Mitford is so very formal, and I cannot say I like Margaret very much either.” She surveyed Anne critically, then blurted out, “Besides, the gown is the very thing for you. You are so much fuller in the bosom than I, you know.”

Anne turned around before the mirror, enticed by her appearance in the gown. “Well, if you are to be Meg, then I must be Annie.” But even as she spoke to the girl, it was Dominick Deveraux’s words that echoed in her ears.
You are not as flat as I thought.
She colored, remembering how he’d laced her into the zona. It had all been so improper, but he’d not even seemed to note it. Briefly she wondered what the girl before her would say if she knew Anne’s story; then she forced such thoughts from her mind. “Why is it that you have taken Mr. Deveraux in dislike?” she found herself asking. “I’m sorry—’tis none of my affair, really, and I should not stick my nose where it cannot be wanted.”

Margaret moved behind her and twitched the skirt into place. “I should not say ‘dislike’ precisely. ’Tis just that … well, ’tis that he
terrifies
me—yes, that’s the word, I think.”

“Terrifies
you?”

“They all do—Trent, Mr. Deveraux, all of them. The men of this family, Miss Morland—Annie—are so … so very
volatile,
you see. I cannot think they make comfortable husbands. And neither Papa nor Aunt Charlotte cares in the least that I have no wish to reform a … a confirmed rake-hell! I’d rather lief not have a man who has no heart!”

“Well, I would not characterize him as heartless, precisely,” Anne murmured. “And I cannot think comfort the greatest requirement in a husband.” Yet as she said it, she could hear Dominick Deveraux’s words again.
I have no intention of making any unfortunate female a difficult husband.

“Well, they are rich enough, of course,” Margaret conceded. “ ’Tis all that Papa can see.”

“I was rather thinking of tender passions, but perhaps you worry for naught anyway.”

The girl shuddered. “I doubt Mr. Deveraux capable of any tender anything. There is a … a temper that quite precludes tenderness. Indeed, but he is positively disagreeable.” She caught herself and flushed guiltily. “There I go rattling again, I’m afraid. ’Tis just that I never get to say anything before Aunt Charlotte. She thinks she is so very different from him, but she’s not.”

“Alas, but I have not met her.”

“Well, I cannot think you would wish to.” Margaret started for the door, then turned back. “After you have rested, perhaps we can enjoy a comfortable coze ere dinner.” She smiled hopefully and added, “Do wear the dresses, for Aunt Charlotte has bought me far too many.”

“But I shall not be staying,” Anne reminded her again. “I simply cannot.”

But die girl was gone, leaving Anne to puzzle over her confidences. Taking off the dress and laying it carefully on a chair, Anne moved once more to the mirror to survey herself critically. What she saw there did nothing to raise her spirits. With her cropped hair, she looked more like an elf than a beauty. She rearranged the unruly brown hair with her fingers and sighed.

Margaret Mitford was a strange one if she could not find Dominick Deveraux attractive, Anne mused. Disagreeable? Sometimes. Volatile? Perhaps. A rakehell? No, she did not think so. She rather preferred his own characterization of a rogue. But it didn’t matter what she thought of him, she reminded herself forcefully. On the morrow she would be bound for London—and jail.

With that less-than-comforting thought she went to lie upon the carved poster bed. Staring at the gilt-decorated plaster rosettes on the ceiling, she thought of Quentin Fordyce, and felt an overwhelming sense of defeat. Unlike her, at least Dominick Deveraux was not alone. Forcing her thoughts from that also, she tried to recall her mother’s face, to see again the triumph of the small, lovely woman born with a voice from heaven.

And yet as Anne closed her eyes, ’twas Dominick Deveraux she saw, and he was running back into the inn for her dress. Despite the barbs he’d cast her way, his action had been kind. He could have abandoned her, after all, but he hadn’t. And for that at least she felt an intense gratitude.

Bertie clutched his wineglass tightly and watched the marquess warily. He felt like a mouse beneath the eye of a cat. When Trent continued to say nothing, Bertie downed his port in a gulp, then rose.

“Got to run, I’m afraid.”

“Sit down, Bascombe.” Trent stretched booted feet toward the warmth of the fire. His fingertips met over his chest. “I find myself intrigued. I’d hear your side of the tale.”

“You would?” Bertie dropped to sit nervously on the edge of the chair. “I couldn’t tell you anything if I was to want to,” he declared. “Damme if I know anything.”

“I did not know that you and Dominick ran together.”

“Eh? Don’t.”

“Do you know the penalty for abetting a fugitive?” Trent asked suddenly.

“Don’t say as I do—and I don’t want to neither.” Bertie leaned forward to ask anxiously, “I say, but you ain’t giving me over, are you?”

“No. In fact, I am relying on you to get him back out of the country.”

“Me? I ain’t got nothing to do with anything!”

Without rising, Trent poured two more glasses. Lifting his, he held it out toward Bertie. “To your continued health, Bascombe.”

“Dashed well hope so.” The younger man again downed his wine quickly. “Good stuff.”

“You might as well sit back, you know.” The marquess regarded Bertie, and his mouth quirked quizzically. “I have never been known to kill anyone inside—’twould ruin the carpet.”

“Eh?” For a moment Bertie’s face betrayed alarm; then he sank back. “Daresay you was funning with me, wasn’t you?”

“Perceptive of you. I knew you could not be the slowtop I’d heard.”

“You did? Dashed decent of you to say it! Get tired of everyone thinkin’ I’m half-empty in the cockloft, don’t you know? Even m’father … Well, I ain’t the fool everybody thinks!”

“You could not be,” Trent murmured, refilling Bertie’s glass. “Suppose you start from where you met my cousin.”

“Ain’t nothing to tell.” Squirming beneath the marquess’s steady gaze, he drank deeply. “I was going to France. M’father’s got this maggot in his brain that I ought to step into parson’s mousetrap without a whimper, don’t you see? And Miss Brideport ain’t got nothing but breeding to recommend her, I can tell you,” he added with feeling. “Screeches when she talks, in fact.”

“So you were eloping with Miss Morland?” Trent prompted impatiently.

Bertie blinked and stared for a moment. “No! She ain’t with me—that is, she ain’t exactly …”

“Are you saying she’s with Dominick?” the older man asked, lifting his brow. “Somehow I cannot think she is quite in his style.”

“It ain’t like that! And if you was a-thinking Miss Morland is his fancy-piece or something like that… well, she ain’t!” Bertie declared forcefully. “She’s a lady! Ask Deveraux—he’ll tell you she ain’t fast in the least. General Morland’s grandddaughter, in fact.”

The eyebrow rose higher. “Morland’s granddaughter? I was unaware the old martinet had one. In fact, I was under the distinct impression that there are but a couple of grandnephews.”

“You know the old gent?”

“Slightly. Actually, Aunt Charlotte knows him better than I. In fact, I believe he attended the memorial service when Cass was killed.”

“Cass?”

“My cousin Casimir—Dom’s brother.”

“Oh … didn’t know.”

“I shouldn’t expect so. He was rather older. Unfortunately, he lost his life quite early in the war—at Vimeiro.”

“Long time ago,” Bertie murmured.

Trent drained his glass and nodded. “Dom was still at Oxford when it happened.” For a moment he stared soberly into the fire. “After we buried Cass, Dom wanted to fight the French, but I stood against him. I considered that Aunt Charlotte had lost enough.” He sighed, then straightened. “ ’Twas a mistake—I should have supported him.”

“Ought to be grateful he didn’t go—deuced nasty business, from all I ever heard.” Bertie shuddered and reached to pour himself another drink. “Glad Boney’s gone, though. Dashed loose screw, if you was to ask me.”

“Back to Miss Morland,” Trent said. “You still haven’t explained how you met my cousin—nor how Miss Morland comes to be here under what can only be considered peculiar circumstances.”

“Told you—aint nothing to tell. I was a-going to France. Met ’em at this inn called die Blue Bull in Southampton, and when they was about to be taken by the constable, Dominick commandeered my carriage. Made m’driver bring ’em here.”

“Miss Morland was with Dominick? And why Southampton for any of you? I should have thought Dover.”

“Don’t know why they was there. Me, I thought m’father wouldn’t think I’d leave from the place. But it don’t matter—I didn’t get to France anyway.”

“You were telling me about discovering Miss Morland and my cousin, I believe,” Trent prompted.

Bertie squirmed uncomfortably. Not wanting to give Anne’s circumstances away, he answered evasively, “Uh … yes … in a manner of speaking, I guess you could say that.”

“Bascombe—”

“Dash it, if you was a-wanting to know about Dominick and Miss Morland, you ought to ask them! Damme if I know anything! I just had the horses, that’s all.” He rose unsteadily, nearly spilling his wine. “Ain’t right asking me, ’cause I don’t know what to say.” The port seemed to have gone to his head, making the room spin around him, forcing him to close his eyes to steady himself. When he opened them, Trent still regarded him. “Look, Miss Morland’s a lady, and Deveraux’s a gentleman,” Bertie declared. “Ain’t anything havey-cavey there. He holds her in the greatest regard, in fact. More’n that you’ll have to get from him.”

Trent let him go, then sat alone before the fire, trying to make sense of the sapskull’s most unedifying disclosures. If Bascombe could be believed, his hotheaded cousin had either behaved most improperly with Miss Morland or finally thrown his hat over the windmill for the girl. And somehow Trent could not bring himself to think it was the latter. He sighed heavily. The burden of being the lately respectable head of a disreputable family was becoming rather onerous. Then the irony of it all came home to him, and one side of his mouth curved downward wryly. Given his own very blemished past, he reflected that taking Dominick to task for Miss Morland would be a case of the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.

He’d delayed as long as he could. Having bathed, shaved, and changed into a loose-fitting cambric shirt, fresh breeches, and a smart pair of Hessians, he was as presentable as he wanted to be. For along moment he stood silently outside his mother’s bedchamber; then, settling his shoulders manfully, he rapped on the door.

There was no answer.

When he rapped again, this time more loudly, the door opened and a maid slipped hastily past him. Peering into the dimness, he could see that the draperies were drawn against the gray day.

“Mother?”

The figure seated before a small fire did not move. “They told me you had come,” she said.

There was no warmth, no welcome in her voice, but then, he’d not really expected anything more than she gave him now. Closing the door carefully, he walked inside to face her. She looked up, her eyes darting like a small bird’s; then she turned her attention back to the fire.

“If you are taken, I’ll not forgive the scandal,” she said tonelessly.

“Trent wrote that you had suffered a seizure, that you might be dying,” he replied, ignoring her words.

“He was mistaken. I cannot think why he came either.”

“Possibly duty.”

“For all that I bear the name, I am not a Deveraux, so he need not have bothered.” There was a strained silence between them. Once more her eyes darted upward, only to drop again to the fire. “You’d best go back to France.”

“Mother—”

“Go on—you have done your duty also. You have seen that I live. I do not expect more of you.”

“Cass would have expected it.”

“Casimir is dead.”

“And I am alive.”

Her lips pursed, then were pulled back into a thin straight line. “I hear also that you have brought your doxy with you. And Haverstoke’s heir. I don’t want them here.”

He smiled wryly. “I can tell the maids have been busy. But alas, as is usual, they are but half-right. Miss Morland is not my doxy.”

“Bascombe’s then.”

“No. Neither of us is so lost to propriety as to try to foist a barque of frailty on you.” He moved around to stand before her, blocking the fire.

“ ’Twould be all of a piece,” she snapped irritably. “Your father—”

“I’m not Papa,” he retorted angrily. “Look at me—for love of the Almighty, look at me, Mother! Do you truly see Papa? ’Tis Dominick, not Nicholas.”

Ignoring his outburst, she fixed her eyes on his feet. “I will not have her here, Dominick—not in my house. I have borne far too much already.”

His jaw working as he sought to control his temper, he managed more evenly, “The house is mine, I believe. And once you have seen Miss Morland, I defy you to call her a doxy.”

There was a brief flicker of interest. “She is a plain female?”

“Not plain, perhaps, but rather unremarkable in looks. I should not be surprised if she wears a mobcap when she meets you.”

She looked up at that. “She’s an older female? Betty did not tell me.”

“Two-and-twenty, I believe.”

“Too young to be traveling unattended by an abigail in your company, in any event,” she observed tartly. “If she manages to leave without a scandal, I shall be thankful.”

“There is always the possibility you might like her.”

“I shouldn’t think so.” She moved uncomfortably in her chair. “Betty!” she called out. “Betty! Wherever is the little goose
now,
do you suppose? Betty! Ring for her, will you?”

“Could I help you?”

She favored him with a withering look. “If you could, would I ask for the maid? I’ve got to stand. Since the str … since the feeling has returned to my leg, my hip pains me when I sit overlong.” Not waiting for him to ring the bell, she struggled to her feet. “Never mind,” she muttered. She teetered briefly, then leaned on the chair. “My cane, Dominick,” she ordered imperiously.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Don’t want to go anywhere—getting into bed.”

He slipped his hand beneath her elbow to steady her, and he felt her tense. For a moment he thought she’d pull away, but she didn’t. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She didn’t like leaning on him, and he knew it. Still, as she took a few unsteady steps, her thin fingers grasped his arm. Her frailty surprised him. All of his life, she’d been the tartar, the woman he could not please, and somehow he’d expected her to live forever. Now it came home to him with cold clarity that she wouldn’t.

It was not until she sank to sit upon the edge of her bed that she spoke. “I’ve got the Mitford chit dancing attendance on me.”

“Trent told me.”

“A trifle too biddable, I own, but respectable. Not a gamester or a duelist on either side of the blanket.” She looked up almost slyly. “Quiet girl. Not likely to cut up a dust over a man’s inamoratas.”

“Which translates into a total lack of conversation, I presume?”

“You could do worse.”

“As I am a fugitive in my own country, I scarce think Miss Mitford would entertain the notion. And,” he declared flatly, “I require a little life in my females. We should be a greater mismatch than you and Papa.”

“You always were a grubby, disagreeable boy,” she grumbled.

“Unlike Cass,” he murmured.

“Unlike Casimir.” She stared vacantly for a moment, her eyes welling with tears; then she recovered. “You never had any sense of the proper, Dominick—look at you,” she said almost angrily. “Did you never learn to wear a coat? ’Tis indecent to run about in your shirtsleeves, particularly before Miss Mitford.”

One corner of his mouth quirked downward. “And Miss Morland—you are forgetting Miss Morland,” he reminded her.

“I forget nothing, Dominick—nothing. Ere you are come down to dine, you will wear a coat in my house.”

“My house, Mother.”

“Aye, you’d like it if I left it, wouldn’t you?”

He appeared to examine a thread at the gathered wrist of his shirt. “I might be home more often,” he admitted. “But, no, I don’t want you gone. There have been times I have wished you at Jericho, Mother, but unlike you, I have never wished you dead.”

“Casimir was the better son.”

“I don’t deny it.” The gulf was too wide to breach, and he knew it. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, he’d never been able to please her. Age had not diminished her ability to wound. An impotent anger rose within, making him reckless, but his face did not betray his ire. Turning to leave he tossed back almost casually, “I am tired of running, Mother. Now that I see you are better, I am considering contacting the magistrate to give myself up.” Swinging back to face her, he saw the stunning effect his announcement had had on her, and he took an almost perverse pleasure in it.

What little color she had drained from her face, then rose again, spotting her cheeks. “You will do no such thing, Dominick! Have you no decency at all? Is there naught that is proper in you?” Her voice rose shrilly. “I forbid it!”

“Oh, I shall be exonerated, Mother. There are those who can swear Beresford fired ere the signal was given.” Bowing slightly, he favored her with a small smile that did not warm his eyes. “Besides, ‘tis not your name that will be dragged in the mud, is it? As you are wont to remind me, you weren’t born a Deveraux,” he said softly.

“Dominick—”

“Until we sup, Mother.”

As he let himself into the hall, he could hear her calling after him. For once, he’d gotten the better of her, he told himself as he walked away.

“Dominick! Dominick!
Dominick!”

He’d not intended to turn himself in, he’d only said it to vex her, but as he trod the steps, the idea began to have a certain appeal to him. Once the Beresford matter was laid to rest, he would no longer need to run. He could be as other men. He stopped for a moment. No, he couldn’t, he conceded. Whether he wanted to be or not, he was what she thought him, a rogue beyond redemption.

Anne woke, startled by a woman’s cries, and lay there trying to gain a sense of where she was. As her eyes took in the elegance of the room, the rich sheen of the dark wood furniture, the heavy
matelassé
draperies, she was at a momentary loss. Then she remembered. The Haven. She’d come with Dominick Deveraux and Albert Bascombe.

She had no idea of the hour, only that she’d slept. She rose and moved to the dressing table, where she found a silver-spined comb. Deveraux was right, she had to admit it—the haircut was a disaster. She had neither the right sort of hair nor the right face for it. But it would grow, and where she was going, she doubted any would particularly care what she looked like. Still, as she stared at her reflection, she could not help wishing that somehow just once Deveraux could see her as she secretly yearned to be, fashionable and pretty.

A scream shattered her reverie, pulling her back to reality. Someone was in the hall, crying loudly, calling for aid.

“Oh, Lor, ’tis the mistress! Someone … Mr. Wilcox! Miss Mitford! God aid her, but the mistress is dead!”

There was no time to dress. Anne grabbed a wrapper the maid had brought while she slept, and tying it around her, ran barefoot into the hall. When the hysterical maid saw her, she clutched at Anne’s arm, pulling her.

“She fell—Lor, but I think ’er’s dead!”

Disengaging herself from the girl, Anne hurried into the bedchamber. An older woman lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor, staring. Kneeling, Anne bent her head low to listen for breath. It was ragged and labored. When she leaned back, her eyes met the woman’s, and she saw the terror there. She clasped a frail hand and murmured soothingly, “Help is coming, help is coming—you are going to be all right,” over and over again. The woman did not move, but continued to stare into her face with an expression Anne would never forget.

“We got to move ’er—’tis drafty on the floor,” the maid mumbled behind her. “Oh, Lord, is she …?”

“Can you hear me?” Anne asked the old woman. There was no answer. “Can you hear me?” she repeated more loudly. Still nothing. “Can you close your eyes?” she asked finally, groping for some means to communicate. The eyes blinked. Anne looked up at the maid. “Fetch someone, will you? I believe she has had a stroke.” Leaning over the woman again, she squeezed the bony fingers. “We’ll have you in your bed in a trice, and then the doctor will come. Until then, you must be calm.”

“Ahhh … ahhhh …”

“No, do not try to speak.”

“Aunt Charlotte!” Margaret Mitford knelt beside Anne. “Oh, dear.”

“Hold her other hand, will you? She needs comfort more than anything now.”

“But … Aunt Charlotte, what happened?”

“She cannot talk just yet. Keep your voice low and soft.” Demonstrating, Anne bent lower. “Mrs. Deveraux, Meg is here with you also, and your son is coming.” Of Margaret she asked, “Can someone get a pillow for her head?”

Margaret sat holding Charlotte Deveraux’s other hand. “Betty, fetch a pillow,” she said as calmly as she could.

“Oh, Lor, what’s to do, miss?”

“The pillow,” Anne said firmly.

It seemed like an eternity before the others came, when in truth it could not have been above a couple of minutes. It was not until Anne looked into polished boots that she dared to sigh her relief. The marquess dropped down beside her. “Aunt Charlotte …”

“Er’s stroked plumb out of it!” Betty wailed.

“If she cannot cease that, send her out,” Anne muttered. “It alarms Mrs. Deveraux.”

“Betty, go fetch Dominick, will you?”

“I’m here, Alex.”

Dominick stood there gazing down at his mother, and guilt flooded through him. Once more he ought to have held his tongue, and he hadn’t. “What happened?” he asked.

It was Anne who answered. “I believe your mother has suffered another seizure. She cannot speak, but she can hear,” she added meaningfully. “Here—no doubt she would rather hold your hand than mine.”

“Shouldn’t we get her to bed first?” he inquired, hesitating.

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “I have cared for only one stroke victim in my life.” She leaned over Dominick’s mother once more. “Mrs. Deveraux, would you prefer to be in bed?”

“Thought you said she couldn’t answer.” Albert Bascombe spoke up from across the room. “Heard you say it.”

“She can open and close her eyes. Mrs. Deveraux, if you wish to be moved to your bed, blink.”

The eyes fluttered.

“Very well, then. Your nephew and your son and Mr. Bascombe will lift you gently and carry you there. You will be all right until the doctor comes.”

As Anne started to disengage her hand, the frail fingers tried to close. “Ahh … ahh …”

“What’s she trying to say?” Bertie wondered.

“She is merely frightened, I think. Gentlemen, be careful, for I don’t believe she can help you.”

With Anne still clasping Charlotte Deveraux’s hand, Trent took the old woman’s shoulders, Dominick her torso, and Bertie her feet. Carrying her gingerly, they managed to lay her upon the bed. With her free hand Anne tried to pull the covers from beneath her and couldn’t.

“Someone get a blanket over here—she may be chilled. And throw another log on the fire.”

“I thought you were a companion rather than a nurse,” Dominick murmured at her shoulder.

“Is everything a jest to you?” she demanded angrily. Then, realizing that perhaps he did not know what to say, she apologized. “Your pardon, Mr. Deveraux—I should not have said that. Here, hold her hand whilst I get some laudanum.”

His eyebrow shot up. “Laudanum?”

“When Mrs. Cokeham had a seizure, the physician prescribed it, saying that the greatest danger was in the agitation of the brain. ’Twill soothe your mother.”

He made no move to take his mother’s hand. Finally Anne quite literally thrust it at him. “Tell her something meaningful,” she suggested. “Something that will reassure her.”

The thin fingers were cold against his, and not at all responsive. He held them awkwardly, wondering if she recoiled and he could not feel it. What could he say—that he was sorry for causing her to have a seizure? That he was sorry for everything? That, like her, he wished he’d died instead of Cass? ’Twas the only thing she would wish to hear, and he knew it. And even that could not bring Cass back for her. The gallant, good son was gone, leaving only the rogue, and there was no help for it. Maybe death was what she wanted; maybe she yearned still to be reunited with her beloved Casimir.