Shady Lady (18 page)

One thing gave her some consolation. Eric had come out of the experience unscathed. He went off with Mrs. Daventry, chattering about his part in apprehending the villain. He didn’t realize that Fry was dead. He thought the Bow Street officers had taken him to prison, and they let him go on thinking that.

Waldo indicated that he intended to stay the night, and she was glad of that too. It relieved her of having to be in charge. For a little while, all her burdens and anxieties could be turned over to his capable hands. So, after picking her way through a dismal dinner, she excused herself and retired to her chamber.

Not long after, Libby arrived with a glass of warm milk laced with laudanum. Jo drank it back, then climbed into bed.

In spite of the laudanum, she slept fitfully. In her dream, Chloë wasn’t dead, she was in hiding. All Jo had to do was find the right door and she would find Chloë behind it.

Before turning in for the night, Waldo cleaned, loaded, and primed every gun he could find in the house. There were only four of them—his and Jo’s, and a pair of dueling pistols that were kept in a velvet-lined box in Sir Ralph’s former library. That gave him only four shots, one from each gun. He’d heard of a minister up in Scotland who had invented a gun that could fire more than one shot before it had to be reloaded. With a weapon like that, a man could afford to take chances. As things stood, every shot had to count. Reloading took time.

He left one dueling pistol in the morning room—in the top drawer of the sideboard, among the silver cutlery—and the other in the cupboard under the stairs. He pocketed the other two pistols, poured himself a large glass of brandy, then picked up his cane and went upstairs.

He wasn’t the only one up. Sykes and his gardeners were posted at the downstairs doors. Lamps were lit on both floors. He blamed himself for what had happened. He should never have called off Harper or relaxed his vigilance. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

A bed had been made up for him, on his instructions, in Eric’s chamber, though there were plenty of other rooms he could have used. He wanted to be close to both Eric and Jo. They had adjoining rooms. He didn’t care what anyone thought of this arrangement. For his own peace of mind, he wanted to be within hearing distance if someone else decided to take a potshot at her.

His pent-up fury dissolved when he walked into Eric’s room to find Jo hovering over the bed. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. She was wearing a Paisley shawl over her nightgown and her feet were bare. Her appeal to the sensual side of his nature was powerful, but she wasn’t the only woman he had lusted after. What was staggering was how she could make him feel.

Though her eyes were shadowed with fatigue, she gave him the sweetest smile. “Surely,” she said softly, “Mrs. Paige could have done better for you than that.” She pointed to the trundle bed that took up one corner of the room.

As softly as she, so as not to waken Eric, he replied, “Mrs. Paige offered me my choice of rooms. I chose to be close to you and Eric.”

“Thank you,” she said simply.

While she gazed at Eric, he studied her. He thought of what might have happened if he had not walked in on Fry when he did, and his hand curled menacingly around his brandy glass.

“Waldo,” she said, “I must talk to you. Shall we go to my room?”

He balked. “The servants will be scandalized. We can talk in the morning room.”

Her eyes blazed. “What do I care what the servants think? After all that’s happened here today, that’s the least of my worries.”

Without a backward glance, she pushed into her own room. Waldo left his cane but held on to his brandy and obediently followed her. She left the door ajar and told him to be seated.

“Waldo—”

“Sit down,” he ordered, “or I shall get a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and came to the point at once. “I want you to take Eric away from here. I want him to be safe. You have sisters he could go to. Or maybe your mother might take him. It’s not that I don’t want him. You must know that. It’s just that I want him to be safe, and he won’t be safe as long as he’s with me.”

When she stopped, he replied, “I was thinking much the same thing. My mother will be happy to have him.”

She sat back, obviously astonished by her easy victory. “Well,” she said, “that’s settled, then.”

“Not quite.” He took a sip of brandy before going on. “I want you to go with him. I don’t know why you should be surprised. You can’t imagine I would leave you here to fend for yourself when there have been two attacks on you already. This isn’t the time for bravery, Jo. This is a time for caution.”

“I wasn’t brave,” she said fiercely. “I was stupid. I had a clear shot at him—Fry, I mean—and what did I do? I let him take the gun away from me. If you had not been there . . .”

“But I was.”

Arms hugging herself, she went on, “I think, deep down, I believed he would back off. But he didn’t. What kind of man takes such chances?”

He said seriously, “One who thinks that women don’t have it in them to shoot an unarmed man.”

“Women like me,” she said bitterly.

“Most women,” he corrected, “and there’s no shame in that.”

“Hah! Easy for you to say. Can you imagine how I felt? I didn’t know you were there. I thought it was just Eric and me. I never want to feel so helpless again. Never!”

“Women aren’t the only ones who can feel helpless.”

She looked up at him with an arrested expression. “But you sounded so confident, so . . . so in command of the situation.”

He showed her his hands and made them tremble. “Does that look like ‘confident’ to you?”

He’d hoped to win a smile from her. Instead, tears welled up. She took one of his hands in both of hers and, with the tips of her fingers, traced the lines on his palm. When she turned his hand over, she found the scar from an old knife wound. She gazed at the scar for a long, long time, then slowly brought his hand to her lips and kissed it.

Waldo, never at a loss with women, was transfixed. In other times, with other women, he wouldn’t have hesitated to take things one step further. But this was Jo.

She gave him a searching look. “I don’t want to be alone,” she said. “Would you . . . would you sit with me for a little while? It would help if I knew you were there.”

He was flattered. No. He was humbled. And amused. He’d had the odd fantasy about spending the night with her, and it seemed that his fantasy was about to come true. But on her terms.

She wanted to hear the sound of his voice, so he read to her from
Waverley
, one of Scott’s novels that he found on the table beside her bed. When her breathing was slow and even, he stopped reading, but a moment or two later her lashes fluttered open and he had to start over.

When she was sleeping soundly, he checked on Eric, then removed his jacket and neckcloth and made himself comfortable on one of the upholstered armchairs. He sipped his brandy slowly to make it last.

Thoughts flitted in and out of his mind. Jacob Fry. The attack on her, and who had ordered it and why. But the thought that kept coming back, the thought that left him shaken, was how important this slip of a girl had become to his happiness.

From now on, he promised himself, he would take better care of her. He didn’t want her to put herself in harm’s way by asking questions about Chloë. He didn’t want her living in this house with only gardeners to protect her. He wanted her at Palliser, where half the footmen were former soldiers who knew how to handle guns and take care of themselves in a fight. He wanted her where he could keep a close eye on her.

Tomorrow, he decided, he would take Jo and Eric to his mother, and if Mrs. Daventry wished to go with them, so much the better.

Before going off to his own makeshift bed, he took one last look at her. There wasn’t much to see, only the tip of her nose and her glorious mane of red hair. He stood there staring down at her, with a foolish smile on his face.

C
hapter
18

T
hey set out for Palliser Park the following morning. Waldo had sent a servant ahead with a note for his mother, explaining briefly why they were coming. Jo was anxious. As she told her aunt in the carriage, what had seemed like a good idea at breakfast had lost its gloss the closer they got to Palliser Park. It was asking a great deal of Lady Fredericka to take in three strangers at such short notice. Eric didn’t think it was asking too much at all. Uncle Waldo had invited them, so it must be all right. Uncle Waldo couldn’t comment. He was on the box with his coachman, with a great blunderbuss cradled in his arms and a pistol stuffed in each pocket.

Jo’s fears were groundless, as Mrs. Daventry had predicted. Lady Fredericka was waiting for them in the great marble entrance hall to welcome them to her home. She didn’t make a fuss and she didn’t bombard them with questions. She was solicitous, but she was also matter-of-fact.

“You’ll be quite safe here,” she said, “and you must stay until this dreadful business is settled. Leave it to Waldo. He has connections. He’ll get to the bottom of this.”

As Waldo went off to speak to his father, Lady Fredericka led the way upstairs. Jo held on to Eric’s hand. It was a beautiful Palladian house in a beautiful parklike setting, but she couldn’t help being anxious about Eric. She remembered how she’d felt as a child, when she was left with first one relative then another. It didn’t matter how kind they were, and they were all kind, generous people. A child needed stability.

“Luncheon will be served in half an hour,” said Lady Fredericka. “Quite informal. Just come as you are.”

She left as a bevy of maids came to help them unpack. Eric’s room was right next to Jo’s and had a clear view of the lake.

“Maybe Uncle Waldo can teach me how to swim,” said Eric, his eyes sparkling. “Or maybe there are boats and we can go fishing.”

Mrs. Daventry and Jo exchanged a quick look. “I do believe,” said Mrs. Daventry, “that Eric and I think alike. This is a grand adventure, and we’re determined to make the most of it.” Her smile suddenly died as a thought occurred to her. “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean that the way it sounds. It’s just that I’m glad we’re here and not at Chloë’s house.”

“And I,” said Jo with feeling, “am glad that you decided to come with me when you might have gone home to Greek Street.”

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you when you need me. I mean it, Jo. I’m not leaving you till this whole ugly business is settled.”

Jo’s throat closed up, but before she could clear it, the luncheon gong sounded. Waldo was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs with his sister Maude. As Maude showed Mrs. Daventry and Eric the way, Waldo fell back a little so that he could talk to Jo.

“I’ve warned my family not to pester you with questions,” he said. “And I know they’ll do everything possible to make your stay comfortable.”

Touched by his concern, she let her hand rest briefly on his arm. “Don’t worry about me, Waldo. I’m fine, really I am.”

It was an exaggeration, but she felt that, after all he’d done for her, she owed it to him to appear, if not unscathed, at least on the road to recovery. Uppermost in her mind was the memory of last night. He’d read to her from some boring tome till she’d finally drifted into sleep. All her troubles faded just because he was there beside her. When she’d wakened in the morning to find him gone, she was disappointed.

She supposed she wasn’t the first female to waken in the morning and be disappointed because Waldo was no longer there.

Swallowing a sigh, she marched into the dining room.

Standing at the head of the table was Waldo’s father. Waldo made the introductions. Jo was aware that she was being carefully measured, then Mr. Bowman smiled, not a superficial movement of his lips but a genuine expression of warmth, and Jo felt herself relax. He was a striking-looking man, of an age with his wife, above-average height, and bore a vague resemblance to Waldo, though Mr. Bowman’s eyes were blue and his hair was rapidly giving way to gray. There was a keen intelligence in those blue eyes, Jo thought, and humor too.

“Well, well,” he said, “we regret the reason that brought you all to Palliser, but not the fact that you are here. We hope your stay will be a pleasant one and that you will treat our home as though it were your own. Please, Mrs. Chesney, take the place by me, yes, and you too, Mrs. Daventry.”

Jo made some suitable rejoinder, as did her aunt, and they went to the chairs Mr. Bowman indicated. No one was seated yet. They were all standing. Jo looked around for Eric, but there was no sign of him.

There was one person still to be introduced, a gentleman in his late thirties. His coloring was fair; his eyes were as blue as Mr. Bowman’s. There was an easy charm about him that Jo found herself responding to.

“And this,” said Waldo, “is my cousin, Thomas Bowman. You’ll meet his daughters later, Jenny and Marion. Eric went with them. They’re having lunch in the conservatory, I believe.”

Looking at Jo, Thomas added, “Except they think it’s a jungle. When they’ve finished lunch, they’re going to hunt for snakes and poisonous insects. So you see, they’ll be wonderfully entertained.”

Jo nodded and smiled, and decided that she liked Waldo’s cousin. He was telling her all this so that she wouldn’t worry about Eric.

At this point, Mr. Bowman signaled the footmen to come forward and help the ladies with their chairs. When everyone was seated, he said, “Thomas is the member of Parliament for Burnham. When the House is in session, he spends most of his free time at Holland House, just a stone’s throw from here. We’re honored to have him with us today.”

Thomas grinned. “Hardly free time, Uncle. There’s a great deal of House business gets done at Holland House.”

Mrs. Daventry said, “Lord Holland is a Whig, is he not?”

Mr. Bowman nodded. “There have been Whigs at Holland House for generations, whereas at Palliser House we’ve always been Tories—until, that is, the present generation.” He looked pointedly at his son and nephew. “Need I say more?”

“No, you need not!” declared Lady Fredericka. “You know the rules, Julian. We do not discuss politics at the dinner table. It is bad for your digestion.”

Mr. Bowman and his wife exchanged a long, challenging look down the length of the table. He said gently, “Then am I permitted to talk about the succession?” To Jo, he said, “You see here, Mrs. Chesney, my heirs: Waldo, who is a bachelor, and Thomas, who is a widower. At the rate they’re going, there will be no male Bowmans left to carry on our line.”

Waldo said, “That’s not a good enough reason to get married, Father.”

To which Thomas added, “I wouldn’t swap my girls for sons even if you offered me the position of prime minister.”

To which Mr. Bowman replied, “I am hardly likely to do that, you being a Whig. As you know very well, I’m talking about duty, not your lovely girls.”

From the other end of the table, Cecy called out, “What’s wrong with girls, Papa? Don’t we count?”

Her father let out a long-suffering sigh. “Of course you do,” he said, “but when you marry, you’ll take your husband’s name. That’s all I meant.”

Her ladyship let out an audible snort. “I don’t see what’s so special about
your
name,” she said, addressing her husband. “If I had my way, I would have kept my own name when I married. The Howards go back as far as the Bowmans, yes, and did not change sides when you-know-who came to the throne. We Howards know how to be loyal.”

“Mother!” Waldo was shaking his head and laughing at the same time. “Mind your tongue or you’ll have us all hanged for treason.”

Jo did not know where to look. She was on tenterhooks, wondering who would enter the fray next. She could tell that her aunt was as disconcerted as she. No one else at the table, however, seemed to find anything amiss in these heated exchanges. She studied each person discreetly. When her eyes met Waldo’s across the table, he smiled and shrugged helplessly. She took that to mean that this was how his family usually conducted itself and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

There was a respite when footmen served luncheon—crimped salmon, croquette of chicken, with sprouts and lobster salad—but the respite was only to last for a few delicious bites.

It was Maude, in her quiet way, who picked up the gauntlet that her father had thrown down. “Once women get the vote,” she said, “there will be no stopping us. We shall keep our own names, enter the professions, become members of Parliament, and leave our worldly goods to whomsoever we choose. But nothing can be done until we get the vote. What do you think, Mrs. Chesney?”

Jo choked on a sprout, reached for her glass of wine, and took a long swallow. When she could breathe again, she looked at Maude as though she’d stabbed her in the back. It came to her, by degrees, that Maude hadn’t asked for her opinion out of mischief or for a joke. She really wanted to know what she thought.

And so did everyone else at the table. All eyes were on her.

She cleared her throat, a delaying tactic to give her time to think. “If we passively wait for men to give us the vote,” she said slowly, putting her thoughts in order, “it will never happen. And they’re the ones with all the power. Only they can change the laws. It seems to me that we should make things so difficult for them that they’d be glad to give in to our demands. Our trouble, of course, is that we are too passive. We must be active. We should start demanding access to the professions. We should set up our own businesses. We should lobby our members of Parliament to change the laws so that we have control of our own property. When men see that we won’t give up and that we are as intelligent and as capable as they are, they’ll have to give us the vote.”

“And if we won’t?” interjected Mr. Bowman with a decided challenge in his eyes.

“Then I suggest,” retorted Jo, caught up in the thrust and parry of the debate, “that all women take immediate steps to become as I am. A widow, Mr. Bowman. We widows enjoy privileges that married women can only dream about.”

When the laughter died away, Mr. Bowman said, “I see I am outnumbered by Whigs and Radicals, and in the sacred halls of Palliser no less! I also see my wife signaling me to move on to a neutral topic of conversation. The floor is open. Who would like to begin?”

They all looked blankly at one another except for Mrs. Daventry. She filled the silence nicely. “Cecy,” she said, “your sister tells me that your presentation to the queen will take place next week. Are you permitted to tell us about the gown you’ve chosen for this exciting occasion?”

Cecy needed no prompting, and for the rest of the meal the conversation was all of the joys and pitfalls of court life.

“I can’t believe I said that,” said Jo.

“What?” asked Waldo.

Luncheon was over and they were sitting on a bench beside the man-made lake, watching the children feed the swans with scraps of bread. Thomas and Maude were close by, on the lawn behind them, setting things up for a game of croquet.

“At the dining table,” said Jo, “when I advised all women to become widows like me. I didn’t mean it, of course. I only said it to score points off your father.”

Waldo said gravely, “We were all very impressed.”

Her eyes narrowed on his face. “You’re laughing at me!”

He touched a hand to his lips. “Ah, no. This is an old war wound, a nick from the point of a bayonet. I always look as though I’m amused.”

“Fustian! Your eyes don’t lie, Waldo. You’re definitely laughing at me!”

He chuckled. “You’re a dangerous woman to know, Jo Chesney. I shall have to watch what I’m thinking when I’m with you. But you’re wrong to think I’m mocking you. I’m amused, because you did what few people have ever done. You debated my father to a standstill.” He caught her curious look and shrugged. “My father was one of Mr. Pitt’s closest associates, when Pitt was prime minister—both Tories born and bred. So you see, he learned how to be an orator from a master.”

“Your father was a member of Parliament?”

“Not elected, no. But, he was part of the inner circle that Pitt relied on to draft policies. When Pitt died, my father retired from public life.”

Things were beginning to take shape in her mind. “But you and your cousin, Thomas, are Whigs?”

“That’s what comes of having Lord Holland as our nearest neighbor. His uncle, Charles James Fox, was a frequent guest there, along with other outstanding Whigs. This was long before I went off to war, you understand. I was just out of university when Thomas and I were invited to some function at Holland House. Over billiards, we met some of the most liberal-minded men of our day, liberal and brilliant. They opened our minds to ideas that were new to us. We were very young, very impressionable. Some years later, when there was a bi-election in the borough of Burnham, Thomas was elected. I had canvassed for him. You can imagine what my father thought of that.”

Her mind was going back and forth, slotting things into place. She spoke slowly, “This can’t be the quarrel that has caused so much bad feeling between you and your father? This can’t be the reason you became a soldier and went off to Spain?”

“Why can’t it?”

“Well . . . because it’s only politics. People don’t stop speaking or hold grudges because they hold different points of view. That’s childish.”

“Only politics!”
Waldo repeated and let out a rich laugh.

Thomas joined them at that moment. “What’s the joke?” he asked.

When Waldo told him, he, too, began to laugh. “In this family,” he said, “one’s politics are on a par with one’s religion. Bowmans have been Tories since the days of the Cavaliers. Waldo and I have broken with tradition. That makes us heretics in the eyes of the older generation.”

Jo said, “That’s not so unusual, is it? The older generation is always finding fault with the younger generation.”

“It caused a rift,” replied Thomas, then fell silent.

“It seems pointless, in retrospect,” Waldo said, “but at the time it was all very serious.”