Imprudent Lady (21 page)

So, jackanapes, you are in love with a clever little prude, and like the simpleton you are, have turned her against you. You will have to get busy and do a
volte face
to win her over. After a day's deliberation, he did put Marvelman into the play. Wills would like it—Marvelman had gone over well, and his appearance would ensure some interest in the play. But he'd have to keep Wills from putting an eye patch on whomever played the part. He worked hard, often with success, but as often with worries scuttling through his head that had nothing to do with the play. He postponed his return to London in hopes of finishing it and of being free for romance when he got there.

In the second week of his visit, his man of business found a building he considered suitable for his Magdalen House, and he took a few days off to inspect it. While in the vicinity, he also went to Longbourne Abbey to begin putting it in shape. He didn't want to have it in a shambles when they arrived. Presumption! In his mind it was quite a settled thing that Prudence would accept him.

And then Hettie's letter arrived to send his plans all to pieces.

The letter arrived in the morning, dated several days previously, he observed at a glance. Hettie was up to her old trick of waiting for the good fairies to post her letters for her. He started to read it through, his interest quickening as he saw Prue's name lash out at him down the page. He could scarcely believe his eyes—read it twice, then a third time to be sure he had it right. It was fatally easy to believe Seville's offer had not been an offer of marriage, Clarence's exhortations to the contrary. The man was clearly unreliable, but that Prudence for one moment thought it to be anything else he could not credit. The remainder of the passage threw him into a spasm of fear. She had decided to have Seville after all, then—God knew
he
had given her every encouragement to nab him! What foolish thing would she be likely to do? “Throwing herself at his head” had a bad ring to it, and a strangely uncharacteristic one. He couldn't envisage Prudence to be so lacking in pride. Turned into a virago when Ashington offended her
professional
pride. What nonsensical things had he said to her that day they had discussed it? He'd rather see her Seville's mistress than Ashington's wife—that at least was the gist of it. So she would deter her folly on
his
account. But surely she thought it was marriage Seville meant.

He read the letter yet a fourth time. Seville was going to Bath with a
chère amie
(possibly), so Prudence was safe for the present. But he knew he would get no work done here with this business tearing at his insides. He had his valet throw his things into a bag, made a hurried apology to the Malverns, and a quick departure to London. He arrived in the late afternoon, and stopped first at Hettie's place.

“What is the meaning of this letter you wrote me, Hettie?” he asked at once.

It had been penned days ago. She scarcely knew to what he referred. “The one about Bishop Michaels?” she asked.

“No, about Prudence Mallow."

“Oh, Miss Mallow and Seville! Isn't it shocking? So brass-faced and clever of her. I quite dote on the little minx. If it is a rich lover she wants, I mean to help her find one."

She sat benumbed at the reaction this friendly intention called forth. Dammler jumped from his chair and looked ready to murder her. “She is not a minx! She's as innocent as a lamb, and if Seville has ruined her, I'll kill him."

“Dammler! What foolishness have you got into your head? He never offered her his name, and she knows it well. She only said so—to impress
you,
I fancy, and it seems to have worked remarkably well, too."

“She does not know it! Is he spreading this tale around town?"

“Lord, no, he's scared to death the Baroness will hear it. I doubt he has told a soul. But if you had seen her making up to him on Bond Street last week you would be less sure of her innocence. It was compliments and promises to go down and see him off with the Four Horse Club—yes, and as broad a hint for him to take her to Bath with him as she could well make with
me
standing by."

His mouth set in a grim line, and his fists clenched. “This is all my doing. Is he gone to Bath?"

“I believe so. I haven't seen him since that day, or Miss Mallow either, now I come to think of it. It seems to me there is more between you and Miss Mallow than either of you have let on. All her questions, and sending you word she disapproves of the Countess ... And how does it come you promised
her
to be a good boy?"

“How does it come
you
were telling her I was not a good boy—revolting phrase. I suppose you told her I wasn't getting a line down on paper. She'll think I was carrying on with Lady Malvern."

“It is what everyone who knows where you have been thinks. Weren't you?"

“No—only the flirtation Malvern requires from all his male guests. I was
working,
Het."

“Dammler, are you telling me you are having an affair with Miss Mallow?"

“No!"

“You are so—I know the signs. Both of you jealous as green cows, and she with her little messages to send you. Oh, she
wanted
me to tell you she was after Seville in order to get you back. She is up to anything! And how well it worked!"

“That is the first encouraging word I've heard since I set foot in this house. Did she seem jealous?"

"Yes,
and bound and bent not to show it. So she
is
your mistress."

“No, but she will soon be my wife,” he said firmly.

He left the room with long strides and bolted his horses straight to Grosvenor Square. Hettie sat reeling on her sofa, wondering if she had heard aright.

Dammler received with dismay the information that Miss Mallow was not at home, and would not be home in the near future—she had gone to Bath. He requested an interview with Mr. Elmtree, who pretended to his sitter, a Mr. Sykes, brewer, that he was peeved, but in fact he was in alt. “It is Lord Dammler, the marquis, you know—he writes rhymes. A great friend of my niece. He has been off visiting an earl, but he is always about after my niece when he is in the city. He is sweet on her."

Dammler's return, not only to town but to Grosvenor Square in person, did much to re-establish him as an eligible parti. “Well, well, I had best see what he wants. As he has sought an interview with me, he is probably ready for his sitting now. We are trying to work out a mutually agreeable time, but I am very busy these days. Lawrence's taking up his time with the Royal Family throws a lot of extra work on my shoulders."

He took his time about wiping his hands clean, relishing the thought that Dammler would see how busy he was. He left on his frock, as a hallmark of his profession, and excused himself for it as he entered the saloon.

“You catch me hard at work, Lord Dammler. I am doing a portrait of Mr. Sykes—the brewer, you know. His face is a little red, but I will tone it down for him with white. He will have a nice genteel complexion when I am finished with him, he needn't fear, and the symbol, you know, can be a spray of hops. There is no need to go putting a glass of ale in his hands. No one will connect it with ale—a spray of hops looks much like mulberry..."

“I came to see if you could tell me where I might find Prudence,” Dammler interrupted impatiently. “They tell me she is gone to Bath."

“Yes, so she is. It was Seville's idea. He talked her into it. They left this morning—set out in a carriage and four. They were to stay the night at Reading and continue the trip tomorrow."

Dammler knew Clarence well enough to realize Prudence had not actually set out in a carriage with Seville, to stay the night at Reading. “Who went with her?” he asked.

“Her mother is with her, of course. She could not go with him alone."

“Is Seville actually in her carriage, or she in his?"

“No, no, he went on a few days ahead. He is waiting for her there. And how did the rhyming go at Finefields?"

'Well. She is not really
with
Seville then?"

“No, he dashed on a day ahead of her. She is meeting him there. He was very eager for her to go."

“So you told me. Do you have her address?"

“Yes, she stays at Laura Place. I have it written down here somewhere.” But “here” proved to be not in the saloon, or study, or anywhere else he could remember. The butler came to his help. He had it written on a card for the purpose of forwarding mail, and eventually a copy of it was handed to Dammler.

Clarence supposed from Dammler's manner that he was in some rush, and it was not long dawning on him that the reason for urgency was jealousy. He was right for once, but could not keep his knowledge to himself.

“You will be trotting after them, will you?” he asked bluntly.

“Yes, I leave immediately. They stop at Reading, you say? Do you know which inn?"

“They stop
tonight
at Reading. They left at nine o'clock this morning. You will not catch them up at Reading."

“I will if they stop the night. Do you have the name of the inn?"

No, he didn't have the name, nor did the butler, there being no point in forwarding mail there, but he thought she had mentioned “The George."

“You mean to drive all night then?” Clarence asked, well impressed with this eagerness.

“Yes."

“Well, well. You are pretty anxious to catch up with her. This will put Seville's nose out of joint, for her to land with you in her wake. A
real
marquis...” The only thing as variable as the value of a Spanish title was the choice of husband for Prudence. Whichever man or name was before him was the best by a long shot.

“If it doesn't, I will,” Dammler said tersely, and turned to go, his hat still in his hand, for in his haste, he hadn't handed it to the butler.

“You mean to try your hand with her, do you?” Clarence confirmed, trailing him into the hall.

“Yes, certainly. I mean to marry her."

“Well, well, I shall know what to tell Ashington if he calls."

“Does that bleater still come around?” Dammler asked angrily.

“He is always chasing after her,” Clarence answered promptly, harking back to a time some weeks before. “But she has given him the slip. It is Seville who pesters her now. It is the Spaniard you must watch out for. There are queer knots in all foreigners, say what you will."

Dammler returned to his apartment, exchanged his travelling coach-and-four for the faster curricle and his fresh team of greys, determined to be at Reading before morning, if he had to drive all night. He dined alone at home on cold meat and left at seven o'clock, tired even before he began the drive, from his trip from Finefields and his worries. It was nearing midnight when he pulled into “The George” at Reading, so tired he could hardly walk, and knowing he would not see Prudence before morning. He felt he had been a damned fool to come pelting after her in such haste. As he signed the register, he glanced to the names above his to see if she was there. He saw her neat signature, and her mother's. The very sight of them cheered him, until his eye slid up a little higher on the page, and he saw the less pleasing sight of R. J. Seville, Esq., in a dark, bold hand.

His blood surged through his body until he was breathing faster. “I see a friend of mine, Miss Mallow, stops here. Would you be kind enough to give me her room number?"

“I'm afraid I can't do that Mr....” The clerk glanced at the register. “Lord Dammler!” he shouted. “Oh ... oh, well, in
that
case I'm sure it is all right. Miss Mallow is in the suite at the east end of the first floor."

“And Mr. Seville? I notice he too is registered. Another—friend of mine."

“He is next door to Miss Mallow."

“How very convenient,” Dammler said in a controlled voice, and turned away to take the stairs two at a time, toward the door at the east end of the hall.

Prudence was so eager to be off to Bath that she scarcely closed an eye the night before, and was up at seven o'clock to check again her luggage to see if she had packed all her essentials, plus a good many items she suspected of being superfluous. But one couldn't be sure of getting Gowland's lotion and Longman's soap at Bath, and it was best to be prepared. Clarence wouldn't miss their taking off for the world. He put on his new blue coat of superfine to bid them farewell, and tied an Oriental for the occasion. He went outside to tend to the tying on of the trunks, and to let Mr. McGee next door have a look at his coat and cravat. He would later stop around to tell Sir Alfred that the ladies had got off bright and early. Mr. Sykes was not coming for his sitting till eleven o'clock. Very fortunate he had gentlemen lined up for the next few paintings. After that he would try his hand at a couple of country scenes in Richmond Park. It was the season for it. June might mean Bath or Brighton for most, for Clarence it meant three more landscapes of Richmond Park. Well, well, it would be good to have the place to himself again for a few weeks. Quite like old times.

At nine o'clock Prudence and her mother pulled away from the door and settled back to enjoy the luxury of getting away from Clarence, London, and the stale familiarity of home. It was a fine day. Once free of London they enjoyed the brisk trot provided by an extravagant team of four horses, and the view of emerald countryside, dotted with trees and flowers.

“We should do this more often,” Prudence said. “Now that we have a few pounds from my work to spare, we should go to Bath every spring."

“Mr. Seville will not be there every spring,” Mrs. Mallow replied coyly.

“I certainly hope not! I am not going to because
he
is there, Mama. In fact, I hope he will have left before we arrive."

“I don't think that is very likely,” her mother laughed, rather complacently. She was glad to be getting Prudence away from London and her memories of Lord Dammler. Impossible that
that
would ever come to anything but heartbreak.

Strangely, Prudence did not mind in the least that both Clarence and her mama thought she was running after Mr. Seville as hard as she could. Had they inferred for a single moment she was flinging herself at Dammler's head, she would have been incensed, but to their little jokes about Seville she was impervious. They had a pleasant nuncheon between London and Reading, and remounted for the afternoon's journey, and both felt themselves fortunate to be lurching along in a quaint old vehicle twenty years old, with four fast-tiring nags to pull it, to a fashionable resort for a four week stay in rented rooms hired sight unseen at a low cost. Their spirits were still high when they arrived at “The George” in Reading in good time for dinner. They took a walk to stretch their limbs before eating, and splurged on hiring the smallest private parlour in the establishment for dinner. Breakfast they would take in their room. There must be some limit to their high living they agreed.