Wedding Night Revenge
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Mary Brendan
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Chapter One
‘Do you not miss having a husband and children of your own, Rachel?’
‘I’ve told you, I’m happy enough to share your Paul…’
‘No! Be serious about it,’ Lucinda chided on a chuckle. ‘Are you ever regretful at having turned down that Mr Featherstone?’
Rachel looked mystified for a moment, her pale brow puckered in concentration. ‘Oh, him!’ she suddenly exploded on a laugh, having finally placed the last man who had offered for her. That, she realised, had been the basis of his attraction at the time. She had been persuaded—not without foundation as it turned out—that he might be the last eligible man to present himself. And he had seemed well enough: he had a decent head of auburn hair and his own teeth, and wasn’t a widower so there wasn’t a danger of having his mewling offspring tipped into her lap. But within a month of their engagement being made public, Rachel had realised she wasn’t that desperate to attain connubial status after all.
Aware that her friend was awaiting a reply, she dismissed him with a laugh. ‘Heavens, no! He was a duellist and a gambler and not very proficient at either. He nigh on had a hand sliced clean off in a sword fight over some Covent Garden nun, and his pockets were to let too often for my liking. I suspect he bargained on having Windrush to refill them at some time.’
‘Well, what about that other gentleman? The one who walked with a limp and the aid of a silver-topped stick, but had the face of an Adonis…’
‘It’s odd you should mention Philip Moncur,’ Rachel said on a frown, recalling that particular admirer. ‘A month or so ago he sent me some poetry, despite the fact I’d not heard from him for three or more years…since our engagement was broken.’
‘How flattering he should remember your fondness for Wordsworth and Keats.’
‘Well, if he did remember, he chose to ignore it, and sent me some drivel he’d penned himself—a quatrain that lauded my ethereal radiance and classical serenity. When I ignored that, it was followed by an ode in which he compared me to a marble statue: bleak and beautiful to behold and in need of the sultry sun of his adoration to fire me…’
Lucinda pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh. ‘I’d say he’s angling to see you in one of Madame Bouillon’s togas.’
‘I’d say he’s angling to see me out of it. Silly man! Why does he not just send over details of his proposition?’
‘Rachel! You surely wouldn’t consider…well…such an offer?’
‘Why not? I think marriage is highly overrated. Being a kept woman has its benefits…money and freedom, to name but two.’
‘Well, for goodness’ sake! And I would have sworn you would never say or do anything else to shock me!’ Lucinda giggled nervously. ‘Don’t tell June those theories; you know she hangs on your every word deeming it sensible advice. I’d hate her to flee at the last minute in a…’ Her voice trailed away and she grimaced apology.
‘Panic….’ Rachel finished the sentence for her, apparently undisturbed by her friend’s tactless allusion to her aborted first engagement. But then no one ever referred to that episode, under any circumstances. So Rachel simply said, ‘Oh, June’s different,’ whilst fanning her face and throwing back her head to let a breeze beneath the strands of fair hair sticking to her damp neck. ‘I can hardly have misgivings about June’s match; after all, it took me three whole months to bring it about…’
‘About the same time it took you to pair Paul with me,’ Lucinda said quietly.
‘Yes…I suppose it was about the same.’ Rachel cocked her head in mock thoughtfulness. ‘My trouble is I’m too selfless. What I should have done was conspired to keep one of those fine fellows for myself.’ She sighed theatrically. ‘Now I’m on the shelf. I’m reduced to receiving ditties from very poor poets.’
Lucinda chuckled. ‘I think Moncur is very Byronesque! Quite gorgeous, in fact, and sensitively cerebral too.’
They sat in amicable quiet for a few moments, watching passing heat-hazy scenery and a procession of flagging promenading ladies. Gauzy muslin shifts were everywhere as were pretty parasols tilting at the hot sun.
‘That first gentleman, Rachel…the Irish major…’
‘Who?’ Rachel snapped, as though annoyed at her friend for picking up the threads of that abandoned conversation. ‘Oh, him.’ She sighed, bored yet conciliatory. ‘That was so long ago, Lucy, I can barely recall how he looks…’
‘Well, take a glance to your left and refresh your memory,’ Lucinda archly advised.
Rachel did look, quickly, curiously, with a disbelieving smile curving her full, soft lips. It set in stone.
She had often wondered how she would feel if she ever did see him again. After six years, it seemed increasingly unlikely that their paths would cross, especially as she no longer visited London town more than once a year, in the Season, for a short shopping sojourn with her mother and sisters and to see her friend Lucinda. It was only preparations for June’s wedding that had brought her family to the metropolis this week.
She had often wondered, too, as the years passed: if a chance meeting occurred, how would he look, how would she look and whether time would make either or both fail to recognise the other. In any case, it was idle trivia and, as such, soon dismissed from her sensible head. The staggering reality was now thrust upon her: just a glimpse of Major Connor Flinte’s dark, rugged profile was enough to stir such melancholy memories. Her heart seemed to pause with her breathing; her eyelids drooped in anguish. ‘Oh, Isabel…I wish you were here…’ she whispered in a ragged little voice.
Lucinda heard the whimper and darted an anxious look her way. ‘It’s probably not him. I’m sorry. 'Twas a stupid thing to say. That gentleman looks to be too young. The Major must now be in his thirties… He’s probably paunchy and greying…and in Ireland…’
‘It’s him,’ Rachel rebutted remotely. Oh, it was him. She’d known him instantly, yet believed she had forgotten his face. Though he was some distance away, she was sure she could see his gentian eyes; detect a soft Irish brogue on the warm air.
She blinked, took in more of the situation. He was driving a precarious-looking high-flyer and by his side, barely reaching his shoulder, was a dainty female companion looking cool and elegant in sherbet-lemon muslin. The woman’s face was hidden from view by a parasol twirling sideways, protecting her face from the afternoon sun low in the western sky. Just a wisp of hair as black as his own could be seen straying beneath her pansy-trimmed straw bonnet.
‘I believe that’s Signora Laviola with him,’ Lucinda said. ‘Yes, it is,’ she confirmed excitedly as the woman swung her head playfully to one side, as though hiding her coy expression from her laughing companion.
‘Don’t stare so, Lucinda,’ Rachel begged. ‘He might turn and see us.’
‘He looks to be too engrossed with the sultry songbird,’ Lucinda noted. ‘So does Lord Harley. See, over there in that curricle with those other goggling fools. The latest gossip is that the lovely Laviola was about to agree to Harley’s protection when she dropped him like a stone in favour of a wealthier lover…’ Her confidence trailed into belated, tactful silence.
Abruptly, Rachel sat back in the landau’s comfy squabs, pulled her own bonnet and parasol askew so it allowed the sun at her complexion but shielded her face from idle glances from the left. ‘What is blocking the road?’ she muttered impatiently, bobbing about to see up ahead. Although some distance apart, the landau and the high-flyer were practically neck and neck and at a standstill, for every conceivable type of conveyance seemed to be, of a sudden, jamming the narrow street.
Lucinda began darting about, too, desperate to get a better look at the Italian soprano who had been in London but a few months, yet had set tongues wagging the moment she arrived. The signora was the toast of the ton: she had the voice of an angel and a heavenly body every devil wanted in his bed…so Dorothy Draper had told her. Lucinda wondered if her husband, Paul, figured amongst the knaves. She resolved to ask him…perhaps tomorrow, when she felt less fat and homely. She craned her neck more determinedly, but was thwarted in seeing much at all by a hackney cab on the left-hand side that had locked wheels with a brewer’s dray. The jarvey had attempted to insinuate an uneasy path between the dray and a coal cart and was now well and truly wedged. No doubt he had been keen to deliver his fare to his destination on time and get a nice tip. Had he managed the manoeuvre it would have been a miracle and money well earned; the narrow street was now choking with carriages and the babble of frustrated people keen to get about their business.
Agitated by the increasing likelihood of a glossy ebony head turning her way to investigate the jarvey’s raucous complaints—which seemed to drown out everyone else’s—Rachel jumped up to discover what was causing the bottleneck. Her straining senses just caught a few guttural expletives and a wafting aroma of pulped apples. Their cloying aroma hung heavy on the hot air as she watched a costermonger airing his grievances to a listless beagle with much pointing and gesticulating at his upset barrow and spoiled fruit.
The altercation to one side of her, between the jarvey and the young brewer, redrew her attention as they began swapping increasingly inventive insults. The passenger in the hackney then poked his powdered periwig through the window of the cab and made an extremely common gesture at the coalman, who had felt entitled to add his two penn’orth to the raging debate on road manners on account of his bent spokes.
Rachel gave her driver’s sleeve a tug. ‘Can you not turn this thing about, Ralph?’ she begged vainly, for she knew already such a manoeuvre was nigh on impossible in such a crush.
‘T’ain’t as simple as that, Miss Rachel, or I’d a bin gorn long since. Ladies shouldn’t hafta listen ta such tawk.’ This observation was accompanied by a baleful glare at the lad on the dray and a censorial shake of the head at the judicial-looking crimped head.
‘What is it to you? Eh?’ demanded the perspiring face beneath the wig on noting Ralph’s disgusted demeanour.
‘Ladies present,’ Ralph intoned with a nod at his passengers.
‘Magistrate present,’ the man countered with a grim smirk. ‘And I’ve a good nose for a no-good knave…’
‘I’m persuaded…’ Ralph muttered beneath his breath.
The magistrate continued tapping his sizeable, greasy proboscis. His mean little eyes swivelled about then he stabbed a finger at the brewer. ‘I scent a fiddler. I don’t recall that name on your cart, or you, from the Brewster Sessions. I’ve a mind to see your liquor licence.’ It was a wild aim that hit a bull’s-eye.
The young man glared at Ralph. ‘Now see wot yer done. Couldn’t keep yer beak out an’ now yer’ve set the beak on me!’
‘Don’t dare tawk to me in that there tone o’ voice,’ Ralph bellowed, and within a moment was off his perch and on to the dusty cobbles. His temper rendered him deaf to Rachel’s hissed orders for him to immediately remount and get them home. Whipping off his smart driver’s coat and hat, he shoved starched cotton sleeves towards his elbows.
With an agile spring, the young brewer was soon off his dray and confronting him. Having prepared their palms with spittle, there ensued a pugilistic ritual where they bobbed and swayed whilst circling a circumspect yard apart. Just as Ralph took a stance on his bowed legs and dared to draw off a proper punch, his fist was stopped mid-flight by a large, powerful hand.
‘Is there a problem?’
Rachel had not seen anyone approach: she had been preoccupied with priming her weapon; if necessary, she was prepared to prevent Ralph being laid low by braining his youthful opponent with her rolled umbrella. Lucinda’s swift intake of breath had Rachel instinctively forcing open the parasol with jittery fingers and tilting it over her face. The soft Irish drawl had already given her a fair warning of who the newcomer might be and as a result her heart was hammering at an alarming rate.
Ralph made a show of belligerently flexing his recently released fingers. ‘Lucky you 'appened by, sir. I’d 'ave decked 'im toot sweet an’ no mistake.’
The coalman, atop his cart, had been leaning forward in rapt anticipation. Now he flopped back, folded his arms, and expressed his disappointment at the aborted bout with some weird facial contortions. He denied Ralph his optimism regarding the outcome by sucking his teeth and shaking his head.
The magistrate welcomed the arbitrator by waving an indolent hand through the cab window. He knew an affluent, influential gentleman when he spotted one and liked to foster any such acquaintance. ‘These two ruffians…’ a finger indicated the coalman and the brewer ‘…are aggressive fellows taking fun from impeding me in my lawful business. I’m due in sessions…’ he extricated his pocket watch ‘…damme…some ten minutes since. And this fellow—’ he nodded so sharply at Ralph his wig slid over his eyes ‘—is determined to be as insolent and offensive as may be. I’ll see the lot of ’em flogged and fined for disorderly conduct and obstructing a Justice of the Peace.’ The periwig was straightened with a satisfied flourish.
‘That’s not fair! And not true, either!’ Unable to listen to the wild exaggerations, Rachel emerged from behind her parasol, which she shut with a snap. With a deep breath she raised her golden head.
The distinguished gentleman with jet-black hair and a devastating likeness to her erstwhile fiancé was so close to the side of the landau she could have reached out and touched him. Bravely she skimmed nonchalant sky-blue eyes over his strong familiar features. It’s not him: I don’t recall him being quite so tall or so dark, was one welcome and coherent thought which emerged from the jumble in her mind. Her eyes sped on to glare at his worship.
The magistrate was gawping in disbelief that this pretty little madam had made such bold accusations, or that they could possibly be directed at himself.
‘If you had waited your turn in the queue instead of attempting to barge ahead, the carriage wheels would not have tangled. We would now all be going peaceably about our business,’ Rachel reasoned hotly, leaving his worship in no doubt he was the target of her denunciation.
The magistrate’s jowls sunk to his chest before he recovered composure and set them wobbling with a determined twitch of his head. ‘My dear young woman.’ His tone dripped condescension. ‘Have you any idea just who you are talking to? Who you are accusing of that grave sin: bearing false witness?’ His smooth tone conveyed he knew exactly who he was talking to and he was not impressed: she was one of those blue-stockings with milky liberal views and no proper respect for the authority of a superior male.
‘But I know who you are,’ a congenial mellow voice interjected. ‘Arthur Goodwin, Esquire, isn’t it now? I believe I recognise you from Mrs Crawford’s little soirée last week…or is it that I’m about to bear false witness…?’
Arthur Goodwin, Esquire, suddenly lost the puffed-up demeanour he had adopted when this fine-looking gentleman claimed his acquaintance and instead looked exceedingly wary. ‘Indeed,’ he croaked. ‘I…er…I…might have been there…I don’t seem to recall you.’
‘I’m not offended…’
Arthur’s eyes swivelled at the irony in the accented remark. That particular evening, at that particular lady’s bacchanalian extravaganza, he couldn’t have recalled his own name, he’d been so foxed. He’d barely remembered to retrieve his breeches from the mattress of the adolescent minx who’d serviced him before wending his way home. ‘Pray remind me who you are, sir?’ he burbled in a jolly tone.
‘Devane…Lord Devane. Strange that we meet again so soon. How is Mrs Goodwin? You mentioned she was suffering, as I recall.’
‘Indeed…I might have said so…’ Arthur squeaked, already fearful of the peal he’d be rung by his good lady should she get wind of his regular visits to Mrs Crawford’s to discover if new young girls were taken on. Should the virtuous lady come to hear that he’d been known to curse her as a frigid, scab-faced slut when in his cups… Like a timid snail, his head retracted into the safety of the cab.
Samuel Smith, the young man who had been driving the dray, was ready with a covert wink of sheer admiration as his saviour looked his way. It was followed by a nod of gratitude.
‘Care to help with this wheel of yours?’ Connor responded drily, a tip of his dark head indicating the buckled rim.
Sam immediately set to.
‘Have you a spare minute to lend a hand?’ Connor enquired with a look at the coalman.
The slump-shouldered merchant jerked out of the trance brought on by the fascinating proceedings, realising he’d forgotten about his final delivery, lumped on the back of his cart.
The jarvey gamely pitched in too and, like the other men, speculatively eyed this handsome gentry cove with such a quiet, commanding way about him.
Sam Smith found himself pondering his lordship’s motives for getting involved at all; which brought him to sliding glances at the beautiful blonde woman in the top-notch landau. His Nibs seemed particularly interested in her; although she seemed determined to look every place possible but at him. Which was odd, considering her friend couldn’t take her curious eyes off him.
But it had been the fair lady who’d championed them. Usually the Quality didn’t know the trades existed…until they needed a hasty ride or a fire in the grate, or their cellar stocked on the cheap. But she’d spoken up for three menials for no more reason than that the pompous toad of a beak hadn’t been right nor fair… But then he’d heard tell of his worship Arthur Goodwin and already knew he never was…
Ralph bent knowledgeably over the warped axle, testing its weight, ready to assist the men with the repairs. Rachel discreetly beckoned him, with frantic fingers, desperate to be heading home. There were many dark, heart-rending memories being stirred by the sudden appearance of this man who resembled Connor Flinte so exactly, and she wanted to be alone to decide if she were brave enough today to pick them over.
The traffic was again moving freely. In the distance the costermonger could just be glimpsed towing his cart and at intervals gesturing obscenities at those vehicles whose passengers were still irritated enough at the delay to chivvy him as they passed. The only other stationary vehicles left in the street were Lord Devane’s phaeton and Lord Harley’s curricle, which had now managed to manoeuvre a path to the phaeton and its pretty passenger.
Surreptitiously, Rachel observed the Italian woman who was acting the coquette with three raucous dandies. However diligently she flirted, she was managing to keep a vigilant dark eye on her absent companion. Rachel hadn’t noticed Lord Devane look back at her once.
Lord Devane? Rachel rolled the name around in her mind. From what she recalled, he sounded like Major Flinte when he spoke, he looked like him when she allowed her eyes to flit to his rugged visage…but the name was new to her. Was the man too…?
‘Let us be heading home, Ralph,’ tumbled from her lips whilst her mind investigated the absurd possibility that there might be two such striking-looking Irish gentlemen, and a case of mistaken identity. She knew he had a stepbrother of about the same age, but remembered that Jason Davenport had fair hair and, being of different parentage, naturally looked quite different.
Having been lax earlier, Ralph made amends by immediately doing his mistress’s bidding. He launched himself into the driver’s seat with a sprightliness that mocked his bowed legs and advanced years.
Lord Devane strolled over, seeming to accidentally arrest their departure by catching the bridle of the nearest grey in order to fondle its ears. The mare turned its head willingly into the deft caress. ‘We’ve not had a chance to exchange a few words…’ The casual address was at odds with the sharp blue eyes minutely examining Rachel’s features.
With an amount of pique, Rachel realised that if it was Major Flinte, she had been a little arrogant in assuming he would know who she was. There was no discernible recognition in his eyes, just the steady attention of a man appraising an attractive woman. And she knew she was deemed pretty. Her parents told her so, Lucinda told her so, her mirror reflected their views.
Gentlemen who didn’t know her at all sought introductions; gentlemen who did know of her, and her history of failed romances, still sought to charm her, vainly confident that they could be the one to turn the tables on her and break her heart. She found it faintly amusing that they believed her in the dark over their designs or their motives. She had heard the gossip that sums of money had been wagered in the past on who would successfully woo and win her, then unceremoniously ditch her in a very public way.
So, when in London, she allowed a few stupid fellows to come calling and take her for a drive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour; she encouraged them to visit her parents’ box at the opera or theatre. Just as gossip was fomenting over what seemed to be a particular attachment between herself and a town dandy, she would scupper it by snubbing him forthwith, thus reinforcing her reputation as a callous little tease. She had no regrets; and she had no conscience over it, she told herself, apart from the very mundane one of never having profited herself from a little flutter on the outcome of the gentlemen’s puerile games.
The horses snickered, jolting her to the present. Her eyes flicked up, met a narrowed blue stare fringed by the longest lashes. Something turbulent…frustrating inside her stilled, became calm.
Oh, it’s him…and he knows me; he thinks he knows what I’m brooding on too. He knows nothing of how I really feel. Do I know how he feels? Is he still angry at me? Still bitter and resentful at having been publicly humiliated? It must have been awful for him…so humbling… There’s nothing in his face…no emotion at all. Why is he passing himself off as a lord? Simply to impress that weasel of a judge?
If so, the ploy had worked. The hackney carrying Arthur Goodwin to court passed close by on wobbly wheels, and the magistrate’s face appeared at the window. A tentative, conspiratorial smile flickered at Lord Devane before he was borne away.
The dray and coal cart soon followed the hackney. His lordship inclined his dark head in acknowledgement of their waves and shouted farewells.
‘Noblesse oblige,’ Rachel muttered sourly beneath her breath. It mattered little whether he was now a real aristocrat or afflicted by delusions of grandeur, he was simply Major Flinte to her and thus she need not fret over offending him. That, in all its terrible effect, was already achieved… ‘Remove your hand, please, so we might leave,’ she instructed coolly.
Lucinda, who had been quietly watching the tense, wordless interaction between the couple, spluttered out, ‘I am Mrs Saunders, Lucinda Saunders. I am very grateful for your assistance, my lord. It could have ended badly had you not intervened. Thankfully, all has turned out well…’ A meaningful look then slid to her friend, inviting Rachel to take up the conversation.
‘And you are…?’ a soft voice prompted.
Rachel swung her head about, looked levelly at him. ‘Oh, I am…very grateful for your assistance, too, sir. And you are…about to be so good as to immediately step aside so that I might get along home.’ Rachel tapped Ralph’s arm and settled back into the squabs.
Ralph looked abashed. He looked at their Good Samaritan, he looked at his churlish mistress. He settled on looking off into middle distance. The horses remained idle.
‘Shall I tell you what I think you are?’
Rachel felt the cheek turned to him prickle, her heart slowly thud. ‘You obviously have time to waste, sir. I have none; but if you must accost me, please make it quick, for I am getting quite impatient.’ She flicked her golden head, gazing past his broad shoulders encased in finest taupe material. ‘As is your carriage companion. I believe she is trying to attract your attention.’ Her flitting eyes had alighted on an olive-skinned visage peering at them over a sherbet-pale shoulder. The Italian woman was practically bouncing on the seat as she shifted back and forth in irritation, and her head turned every few seconds to stare at them. The diva had certainly lost her air of cool sophistication along with her trio of admirers: Lord Harley’s curricle was just turning left at the top of the street.
Connor Flinte seemed little interested in his phaeton or its passenger. Just an idle glance arrowed that way and he seemed no more inclined to rush off than before. In fact, he waited until Rachel looked at him again before replying, ‘You want me to be quick? Are you sure? It’s been so long, too…’ The hard smile that followed that soft speech sent Rachel’s pulse pounding. ‘Very well. What I think you are…is little changed, Miss Meredith. That’s my initial opinion.’ He gave a small, lopsided smile while watching a few of his fingers smooth a languid path along the landau’s glossy coachwork. Deep blue eyes mocked her beneath heavy eyelids. ‘And that’s fortunate for me. But pretty disastrous for you…’ he added in a voice as sweet as honey. Then he was walking back towards his phaeton. He’d taken up the ribbons and soothed the signora’s ruffled feathers by the time Rachel gathered sense enough to choke at Ralph,
‘Home, please! Now!’
