Maryann sat at the pretty rosewood desk in her mother’s room. She was supposed to be writing invitations that afternoon for a reception given by the Earl and Countess of Rivington in honor of their daughter’s marriage to Viscount Francis Tammadge. But the ink had dried on the nib of her pen, and the stack of gilt-edged cards ready for delivery was suspiciously low. Maryann did not want to send out invitations to a wedding she hoped would never take place. Just as she did not want to order champagne and ices, or be measured for a wedding gown.
It wasn’t that she felt guilty spending her father’s money, but she knew that her chances of being released from her promise were nil while he, or rather Mr. Winsome, was already paying the bills.
Maryann thrust back her chair and rushed to the window. She knew it offered no view of Mount Street and the carriage that might, finally, bring Stephen Farrell, but the sight of a narrow strip of garden and a brick wall was a good deal more pleasing than those dratted invitations.
Four days since she had made herself walk away from Stephen Farrell! Days of mulling over his vague promises, of trying to convince herself that he meant to help her find Tammadge’s brothels after all. Days and nights of regret that she hadn’t turned back to plead her case once more.
“Dearest,” said Irene Rivington from the day bed nearby. “You’re making yourself ill with needless fretting.
Maryann flung around. “I must do something, Mama! I cannot bear this sitting around and waiting.”
She had told her mother enough of the exchange with Stephen Farrell to give her hope the wedding might be called off. She had not disclosed where the interview had taken place, nor had she mentioned a certain young woman in undress.
And now it looked as though Farrell had no intention of keeping his word. Four days had passed, and he had not called on her.
“You’ve not been sitting still.” Irene removed her spectacles and gave Maryann a quizzical look. “Besides doing your best to wear down the rugs, you’ve spoken with Rose and with Lucy Weller.”
“What good did it do? I wish I could speak to Lucy’s young man. Tammadge’s groom. I feel certain he could tell enough so that I would not need Mr. Farrell at all.”
Pencil and various lists painstakingly compiled for housekeeper, caterer, florist, and wine merchant, dropped from Irene’s fingers.
“Oh, but you must not approach him!” she cried. “You know what Lucy said—”
“Yes, I know. The groom is too afraid to talk.” Maryann’s hands clenched in frustration.
“And no wonder! Just think what happened to that other servant. One of Tammadge’s footmen, I believe.”
“ ‘Stabbed and drownded ’cause he talked too much,’ ” Maryann said under her breath. Those had been Lucy’s words, and the little maid had shuddered with horror.
Maryann tried to tell herself that the death of a servant need not necessarily be attributed to the man’s master, but she, too, felt a chill on her flesh. The man’s master was her betrothed.
She regretted, however, that in her burning impatience to be doing something she had invited Lucy Weller to Mount Street and interrogated her in her mother’s presence, for now Irene was suffering sleepless nights worrying about Maryann’s safety.
Neither were Maryann’s nights restful. Physical exhaustion alone should have guaranteed slumber, for she still attended to her self-imposed chores in Mr. Salisbury’s Botanic Garden every morning, ran errands for her mother in the afternoons, and at night accompanied Bella and Lady Effingham to some party or other. But she could not sleep.
Instead, she mulled over the meeting with Stephen Farrell. In the first place, he shouldn’t have been at the Fighting Cock. Messages could be left there, he had told Robert; but it looked as though he lived there—with a woman, who was obviously no better than she should be.
Maryann would hastily skip over that moment when the bedroom door opened. Her emotions when she saw the half-clad female, the uninhibitedly sensuous stretch, the careless intimacy of address to Farrell, were too mixed and confusing to deal with.
She had, however, Maryann acknowledged modestly, shown great presence of mind by ignoring the whole incident. She had concentrated on recovering the pride she had lost while pleading with Farrell. And it hadn’t been an easy feat after his question whether Tammadge had approached her in an improper manner, which had, unfortunately, reminded her of Tammadge’s lovemaking on the Effingham embankment.
Then, when Farrell spoke to her in that odious, patronizing manner, telling her something was bound to happen before the wedding, it had seemed an excellent notion to simply walk away. Silence, she had reasoned, would show him how wrong he was. A dignified exit would prove she was not a child who exaggerated her problems.
But as one day passed after another, she lost faith in her judgment. It was impossible to read Farrell’s character.
At this point of her nightly ruminations, Maryann would get out of bed and start pacing. Trying to understand Farrell made her restless. He was an enigma. He spoke and—at times—acted like a gentleman born and bred. Yet he could not be a gentleman. If he were, he’d know a lady did not jilt a man because servants gossiped about him. Nor would a gentleman keep her waiting four days when he said he’d be gone a day or so only.
She’d wonder if she should ignore his orders and revisit the strange tavern in Seven Dials with its noxious downstairs and well-kept upper floor.
Or she might send the soldier. His name was Rush, and he had lost his leg at Waterloo. He had been waiting at the carriage when Maryann left the Fighting Cock and had begged for work. Using her meager pin money, she had hired him to assist Robert and the footmen in trailing Tammadge. Rush was eminently suitable as a shadow. With his peg leg and his tattered clothing, he was indistinguishable among the many unemployed ex-soldiers roaming the streets.
But Tammadge was behaving in an exemplary fashion, attending only the respectable gentlemen’s clubs of St. James’s, and on Friday a dinner at Carlton House, her spies had reported.
He had not called on Maryann since the day of the Crabtree rout, but Rivington had confirmed that Tammadge knew of the changed wedding date, and, in fact, declared himself delighted. Maryann did not know whether to be glad of Tammadge’s neglect, or whether to add it to her other worries.
Her plan to use Farrell in the discovery of Tammadge’s slum houses had come to nought, and she knew of no one else who might help her. Inexorably, the wedding day was rushing closer. On Sunday, the banns had been read the first time. Struggling against discouragement and growing panic, Maryann thought that this must be how the fox felt when the hounds closed in.
“Maryann dearest! I’ve been trying these past five minutes or more to get your attention.”
Her mother’s softly reproaching voice brought Maryann back to the present with a start. She realized that she had automatically started to prowl while she was thinking, but she did not stop now. She increased the pace.
“I am sorry, Mama. It’s just that—” She broke off, searching for the right words to explain her feelings. But it didn’t matter how she expressed herself. She just had to say it to someone.
“Mama, I feel trapped. I am frightened. I don’t want to marry Tammadge. I don’t think I want to marry him even if he has nothing to do with brothels or cheating young men out of their fortunes.”
Caught by surprise at her own words, Maryann stopped in her tracks.
When had she decided she didn’t want to marry Tammadge at all? She didn’t know and had no time to worry about it, for her mother once more claimed her attention.
“Maryann, I know you don’t.” Irene swung her feet off the day bed. “Come and sit with me. We need to talk.”
Mutely, Maryann obeyed. Her mother’s words reminded her of the night of the betrothal ball. Then, she had felt a stir of disquiet lest her betrothed had cried off. Now she was in such a dither that only the news Tammadge was waiting below with a special license in his pocket could have put her in a worse state.
“I want to help you.” Irene looked agitated, her face flushed.
Maryann reached for her mother’s hand, patting it.
“Please, Mama. There’s no need for you to worry or to do anything. It is up to me to find a solution. And I shall,” she said, ebullience and youthful optimism reestablishing themselves as she spoke. “I still have two weeks. Something will occur to me.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not worried. I’m excited!” Irene lowered her voice to a whisper. “I received a letter from your grandmother this morning, and by chance or oversight—I do not care which—Mr. Winsome gave it to me unopened.”
“Yes?” Intrigued, Maryann copied her mother’s hushed tones. “I hope Grossmutter is well.”
“She enclosed seven hundred pounds, Maryann! Said she was in Bad Homburg to take the baths, and some Englishman lost the money to her. She says she has no use for it.”
“Gambling in the baths?”
Maryann stifled a giggle as she pictured her haughty grandmother up to the chin in a smelly sulphur bath and raking in her winnings from a floating card table.
“If it isn’t just like her! Oh, I wish I might have seen it. I wish,” she added wistfully, “I might visit Grossmutter again.”
“But don’t you see, Maryann? That’s just what you will do. I’ve been thinking about it all morning, only I wasn’t certain you’d agree to go.”
“Mama, you cannot believe that Father would allow me to travel now.”
“Of course not.” Irene sounded almost impatient. “You’ll take the money and go to Germany. You won’t be here for the wedding, and we shan’t tell your father where you are.”
Maryann’s look of wistfulness changed to awe. Her sweet, gentle mother suggesting an act of defiance! It was incredible.
It was ingenious.
“Do you mean it?” she asked in growing excitement. “You want me to go to Schloss Astfeld and stay with Grossmutter?”
Smiling, Irene nodded. “Your father won’t look for you there. He’d search all England for his missing daughter, but he’d never suspect you had the means to go to Germany.”
“Even if he did,” said Maryann, giving the day bed a bounce, “he wouldn’t come to fetch me back. He stands too much in awe of Grossmutter.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” Irene looked pleased. “He once said a scold from her has more sting than a swarm of bees.”
“Father doesn’t like to be paid in his own coin. He likes to be the tyrant,” said Maryann, not mincing matters.
“Surely you’re not saying your grandmother is a tyrant? A bit strong-minded perhaps. She’s such a dab of a woman—like you—but she is indomitable.”
A frown appeared on Maryann’s forehead and she stared with great concentration at the far wall.
“Well.” Irene rose, shaking out her skirts. “Now that we have the matter settled, we had best get to work. We’ll tell Hedwig. She must find out for us how to make the travel arrangements. And then there is the question of a companion for you. Jane is too young and a flibbertigibbet besides. Would you like to take Hedwig?”
“Mama, you go too fast!”
Irene was not to be stopped or slowed. “That soldier you engaged should go as well,” she said briskly. “He’ll be handy with a pistol, and I could be sure, at least, that you’re well protected.”
“An armed guard?” A gleam of amusement lit Maryann’s eyes. “The war has been over for ages, Mama. No longer are bands of bloodthirsty French menacing the German countryside.”
“There might be highwaymen, brigands. You never know until it is too late to do something about it. But you’ll be prepared, my love.”
Maryann watched her mother’s glowing face. “And you? Will you come with me?”
The glow faded.
Irene stared at Maryann, but she did not see the girl. A memory she had locked away in the deep recesses of her mind pushed and prodded its way to the forefront. Memory of the night she had tried to escape to Germany with the four older girls. The night she conceived Maryann.
Rivington had been livid with rage when he caught her and had dealt with her in a manner she could only pray to forget. He had not abused her since, but when he turned on her in anger and shouted, she became violently ill.
And she hated the nights he came to her room and demanded his husbandly rights.
She had given him five daughters. Rivington did not want daughters; he wanted an heir. Irene was aware that he had mistresses, but did not know if one or the other had borne him a son. Not that it would matter. No male offspring, unless it was a child of a legal marriage, could inherit tide or the entailed estates.
“Mama, come with me,” Maryann said insistently.
“No, child.” Briefly, Irene closed her eyes. It was too late for her. “Much as I hate to lose you, I have to face the fact that you’re grown now. Sooner or later, we must part.”
“If I were to go,” Maryann said slowly, “I wouldn’t be able to return until I reach majority—in over two years. And even then, unless I were married, I’d still be dependent on Father.”
“Elizabeth’s husband might help you then. He can do nothing now, but when you’re one-and-twenty …” Irene’s voice trailed off uncertainly.
“My brother-in-law would not lift a finger for me. He needs all the money he can lay his hands on for his expensive mistresses.”
Irene gave her outspoken daughter an anguished look, but did not reprimand or contradict her.
Maryann would have paid no heed in any case. She was lost in deep thought.
“It is beyond comprehension,” she exclaimed suddenly, “that I should consider running away as a means to escape marriage!”
Ignoring her mother’s startled face, she jumped to her feet. Posture and stride betrayed determination as she set out to pace the length and width of Irene’s chamber.
“As Mr. Farrell said, Father cannot force me to marry Tammadge.”
“But he will lock you into the cellars!”
Resolutely, Maryann suppressed a shudder. “If he does, I’ll say no at the altar.”
“Child, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re unwell. Please lie down and let me make a cooling compress for your head.”
“I have never felt better.” In passing, Maryann swept written and unwritten invitation cards off the rosewood desk.
“But why are you so upset about going to Germany? You told me you wished you could visit your grandmother. You were happy and excited when I said you should.”
Maryann whirled and started back toward Irene. “Oh, indeed. But that was the coward in me. It seemed such a simple solution. I run away and—poof!—no wedding. But what you said about Grossmutter gave me pause. You said she’s a dab of a woman like me, but indomitable.”
Irene sank onto a chair. “Dearest, so are you! Indomitable. I cannot count the times your father tried to—”
“Mama, I won’t run away.”
There was a moment of silence, then Irene said quietly, “Rivington will not allow you to cry off.”
“I shall find those brothels and gaming hells Tammadge owns. I do not need Mr. Farrell! I can do it alone, and I shall lay the proof before the Bow Street magistrate. And when Tammadge is arrested, I shall be free.”
“But the scandal—if you’re still betrothed at the time, the scandal will touch you, too. Your father—”
Maryann gave a short, harsh laugh. “As though there wouldn’t be a scandal if I ran away. But that’s beside the point. Scandal won’t hurt me. And I will approach Father before I go to Bow Street with the proof. Surely, when he knows Tammadge will be exposed, he’ll call the wedding off.”
“Child, I don’t know if I can stand it. What if your probing shows Tammadge innocent?”
Maryann hesitated. She didn’t believe there was a chance of that happening. But if it did—
“I still wouldn’t marry him. Don’t ask why. I don’t know the answer. It’s another thing I must find out.”
Maryann knelt at her mother’s feet. “You’ll stand by me? You won’t let on to Father that I’m deceiving him? That I’m merely biding my time by staying betrothed?”
“Must you ask?” A spark lit in the tired gray eyes, making them mirror images of Maryann’s. “I may not be as courageous as you, but I would never betray you to Rivington.”
Maryann flung her arms around Irene and held her close, but before long, their embrace was interrupted by a scratch on the door.
Maryann scrambled to her feet. Face still flushed with emotion, she admitted James, the older of the footmen, whose stateliness was surpassed only by the butler’s.
“Mr. Stephen Farrell to see you, Lady Maryann.”