Deirdre and Desire (26 page)

Silas pressed down with all his strength and tried to think of something else. Who was it who had apologized because he had been an unconscionable time dying? Charles II, that was it.

The frail body on the bed jerked once more and was still.

Silas gently removed the pillow and looked down at the contorted face on the bed.

He composed his features into a suitable expression of mourning and reached for the bell rope.

No. He would go downstairs and make his announcement in soft tones to the butler.

He walked slowly towards the door.

A scrabbling sound behind him made the blood freeze in his veins.

He whipped round and a chamber pot struck him full in the face.

‘You don’t get rid of me that easily,’ cackled Mr Blewett. He tugged the bell rope.

Silas reeled and staggered out of the door. A footman came running up the stairs.

‘Murder!’ shouted Mr Blewett from the room in an amazingly strong voice. ‘
Murder!
’

The game was up. Silas took to his heels and fled.

Mr Blewett’s house was in Streatham. With hard riding, he, Silas, could reach his lodgings in Brook Street before the Bow Street Runners came to call.

‘And no China Street pig is going to haul me off to the cells,’ muttered Silas as he spurred his horse.

His one thought was to reach the sanctuary of his lodgings and pack a portmanteau. He had a small fortune in diamonds carefully hoarded away under the floorboards. He had to get out of England
as soon as possible.

He hurtled into his lodgings and sent his servant to reserve two seats on the mail coach. ‘I have to leave the country,’ he gabbled. ‘Urgent business. Don’t stand there
gawking, man. Go to it!’

Once alone, he sank down on a chair and bit his knuckles, his eyes darting this way and that like a cornered rat.

Then all at once, he rose and began to pack feverishly. He prised up a floorboard in the dark corner of his sitting-room and pulled out a heavy wash leather bag of diamonds and thrust them into
a corner of his portmanteau.

He had very little time.

Blewett’s servants would have set out after him as soon as they got their wits together.

He heard a quick, light step on the stairs as he fastened the clasp of the portmanteau. His servant had been quick. The door opened.

‘Well, don’t stand there like a fool. Take this bag,’ snapped Silas.

And then he looked up.

Guy Wentwater stood framed in the doorway, a pistol in his hand.

‘So Desire is to be married,’ said Guy Wentwater, ‘and you are going to blab all over London. You are going to ruin me, heh?’

‘No,’ screamed Silas. ‘Not I. Sit down, dear boy, and put that pistol away.’

‘Very well. I’ll hear what you have to say.’ Guy Wentwater strolled forwards.

‘I knew you would see sense,’ said Silas mopping his brow. ‘A drink. That’s what we both need.’

He crossed to the sideboard and seized a decanter of brandy.

Guy took careful aim and shot Silas Dubois through the head, quickly averting his eyes from the subsequent mess. Then he coolly put his smoking pistol away in one of his capacious pockets and
made for the door.

All at once, his legs seemed to give way from under him and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed bitterly for the wreck of his life and ambitions. He
would never become the honoured figure of society he had longed to be. He would be a fugitive, travelling the Continent, living on his wits. He had not even tried to disguise himself and several
people must have seen him enter the lodgings.

Damn those Armitages to hell, the whole pack of them.

He finally dried his eyes and crawled to his feet. And then he heard the cries of ‘Murder! Murder!’ from the street outside. How could anyone know so soon?

Heavy feet sounded on the stairs and two Bow Street Runners backed by Mr Blewett’s servants appeared on the landing.

‘Mr Dubois?’ asked one. Guy waved his hand in the direction of Mr Dubois’ body and stood, waiting for his arrest.

‘Well, you’ve saved the law a hanging,’ said one of the officers, straightening up. ‘Did he attack you?’

Guy had not the faintest idea what was going on but he began to see a glimmer of hope.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I came to call on him and he cursed and flew at me, and I shot him, for I feared he was about to kill me.’

‘Don’t look so put about, master,’ said the Bow Street Runner who stood next to Guy. ‘He deserved what he got. Trying to kill an old man. Shameful. Now, if you’ll
just step along o’ us to Bow Street, we’ll put all the facts before the magistrate. You’ll feel better when you get some fresh air. Come along, now.’

By the time Lord Harry arrived to call on Mr Blewett it was much later that day. Mr Blewett was in a high state of excitement over his own cleverness. The minute he had felt
the pillow over his face, he said, he had decided to fake dying, relying on the fact that Dubois would obviously think him weaker than he was.

‘And I fooled him!’ crowed Mr Blewett.

‘And you sent him to the gallows or transportation by playing on his greed,’ sighed Lord Harry.

‘He’s dead. Marvellous thing. Chap called Wentwater shot him. My servants told me,’ giggled Mr Blewett.

‘What!’ Lord Harry was shaken out of his usual urbane calm.

‘Yes, seems this young friend called at his lodgings and Silas attacked him, no doubt thinking this Wentwater knew about the attempted murder. So Wentwater shot him.’

Lord Harry sat deep in thought, deaf to Mr Blewett’s voice. Minerva had told him of the duel between Dubois and her husband, fought because Dubois and his friends had tried to ruin her.
Deirdre had told of the strange man who had looked so closely at her on the day she had gone out walking alone and had then met Guy Wentwater in Green Park. It seemed as if Guy Wentwater and Silas
Dubois had been joining forces to attack the Armitage family. That Dubois and Wentwater knew each other came as no surprise to Lord Harry after some more thought. Dubois seemed to have known every
weak and shiftless wastrel on the fringes of society.

Lord Harry suddenly decided to call at Bow Street and find an address in London where he could reach Guy Wentwater. That young man had a great deal of explaining to do.

He left Mr Blewett, who was still chortling and chattering over his escape from death, and rode back into London.

But at Bow Street he was informed that Mr Wentwater had announced his intention of leaving the country on business. There had, naturally, been no charges against him. The Runners appeared to
think he had acted promptly and bravely.

Lord Harry returned to his own lodgings and told his Swiss to re-hire the watchdog to look after Miss Deirdre Armitage; then he took himself off to see the vicar.

But the vicar was in a bad mood. He said he could not understand any of it, and then glared at Lord Harry and remarked acidly he trusted
he
was not leaving London since his wedding was in
two weeks’ time and by special licence.

‘For you’ll have to marry her now,’ said the vicar crossly, ‘after what you did to her.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Lord Harry sadly, and Deirdre who was sitting on the other side of the drawing-room looked at him with troubled eyes and wondered if he felt he had been coerced into
the marriage.

‘Papa,’ she said suddenly, ‘
nothing
happened between myself and Lord Harry.’

‘How would
you
know,’ said the vicar gloomily. ‘Just be guided by your father, and we’ll have a respectable matron made of you as soon as possible.’

Deirdre looked pleadingly at Lord Harry but he only smiled blandly back at her.

‘Nonetheless, sir,’ said Lord Harry, returning to the subject of Guy Wentwater, ‘I feel none of your family is safe until we find out exactly where he is. I suggest we get all
our servants, that is, mine, the Comfreys’, the Brabingtons’ and Lady Godolphin’s, to search the whole of London.’

‘He’ll not dare show his face again,’ said the vicar.

‘On the contrary, I think he will. He is by way of being a sort of hero over the shooting of Dubois.’

‘Just think about your marriage,’ growled the vicar. ‘I am disappointed in you, Desire. Now, I’ve got the cost of a wedding on my hands, not to mention Mrs Armitage and
the girls arriving. Then, there’s the boys to fetch from Eton. And the whole world and his wife speculating about the speed of the marriage.’

‘It is all very sad,’ agreed Lord Harry amiably.

Deirdre studied Lord Harry covertly. All these marriage arrangements were bursting about her head. He had bitten her. Bitten! What other unknown horrors lay waiting for her on the marriage bed.
She did not know this man
at all.

Squire Radford was brought into the discussion, Lord Sylvester arrived, and soon everyone seemed to be speculating about the connection between Guy Wentwater and Silas Dubois.

At last Lord Harry rose to leave. Deirdre stood up as well.

‘I would like to have a few words with my fiancé, Papa,’ she said, ‘in private.’

The vicar scowled awfully. ‘I s’pose you’re both beyond needin’ a chaperone. You may go to the library, but leave the door open, mind!’

Lord Harry held the door open for Deirdre and she walked towards him, aware of the accusing eyes of her father.

‘What ails you?’ asked Lord Harry, leading her into the library and absent-mindedly closing the door.

‘The shame of it ail,’ said Deirdre breathlessly. ‘We did nothing, and yet you allowed everyone to think you had.’

‘I knew they would not believe otherwise,’ he said, looking down at her. A red curl had escaped from its moorings and he carefully tucked it back into place on the top of her head.
‘Don’t you want to marry me?’ he asked, noticing the way she flinched from his touch.

‘I am afraid, sir,’ said Deirdre, hanging her head.

‘Of me?’

‘You shocked me. You
bit
me.’

‘Ah, shameless that I am.’

‘It is not a joking matter,’ said Deirdre, raising anxious, worried eyes to his. ‘It is just that there are a lot of things I do not know about you.’

‘It is our wedding night,’ he said. ‘
That
is what troubles you.’

Deirdre hung her head again.

He took her gently in his arms. ‘I am a very wicked man,’ he said huskily. ‘There is something I must tell you . . .’

‘Ho!’ said the vicar, wrenching open the door and glaring at them with his hands on his hips. ‘You’ll now wait until you’re married, the pair of you. Deirdre! You
are coming back with me to Hopeworth and you will return with your mother in a week’s time.’

‘My dear sir . . .’ began Lord Harry, still keeping his arms about Deirdre.

‘No, that’s final,’ said the vicar. ‘I’ll not rest in my bed o’ nights until I see you two
legalized.
’

He stood there glaring until Lord Harry left. Deirdre wondered miserably what wickedness Lord Harry had been about to confess to.

Deirdre was to look back on the days before her marriage as a rushed series of comings and goings between Hopeworth and London.

The fact that she did not seem particularly elated about her marriage was, this time, firmly ignored by the Armitage family. She should consider herself lucky she was to be married and not
parcelled off to the Continent to live out her shameful days in the obscurity of some genteel spa.

Even Minerva and Annabelle, who should surely have been the ones to be tolerant of pre-marital experiments, privately felt that in their case, it had all been different.

The wedding was to be held in a small church in Islington. Only members of each family were to be present with the exception of a very few close friends.

The newspapers had broadcast the bravery of Guy Wentwater in shooting down Silas Dubois. But a diligent search of London by the staff of the various households had refused to unearth that young
man.

The vicar was heartily weary of daughters and marriage. He washed his hands of the whole messy business, he said loudly. The rest could all die old maids for all he cared.

Daphne was secretly disappointed in Deirdre. Deirdre was the last one of them, thought Daphne, that one would ever have thought would allow herself to be rushed into marriage by any man.

She added to Deirdre’s uncertainty and distress by treating her like an invalid, talking softly in her presence, and getting cook to make nourishing broths and possets.

Numbly, Deirdre listened to the gossip about the wedding preparations. She was to wear Annabelle’s wedding gown which had been refurbished for the occasion and her younger sisters were to
wear the bridesmaids’ gowns they had worn for Annabelle’s wedding.

The boys’ silk suits were sent to the tailors to be altered to fit their increased size.

A simple wedding breakfast was to be served at an inn near the church.

By the time the whole family set out for London, Deirdre felt crushed. All those tumultuous feelings Lord Harry had caused seemed a vague memory. At times, she was hard put to remember his face.
She had feared him and hated him, then she had loved him, and now she was frightened of him again. But this time, no one seemed to care. Her down-cast looks were judged to be entirely suitable in a
maiden who had fallen from the pinnacle of virginity before her marriage.

Lady Godolphin did not help matters by being eaten up with jealousy because Colonel Brian had finally turned his attentions elsewhere and was reported to be courting a buxom matron, widow of a
City merchant, who was only forty years old.

‘Men are disgusting,’ said Lady Godolphin to Deirdre. ‘I should have warned you. When you asked me about having babies, I should not have told you, but how was I to know you
would go and lose your virginal? Well, I shall attend your nipples, but if you was expecting Colonel Brian, you will be disappointed. He is flirting with a Cit. Horrible great fat thing. What can
he see in her? Oh, follicles!’

And with that Lady Godolphin burst into tears and turned a deaf ear to all Deirdre’s pleas of innocence.

Betty was small comfort. The maid shook her head over Deirdre’s shame.