Rules for Being a Mistress Page 32

  Lady Oranmore gasped. “Who told you that?” she said, choking.

  “Oh, didn’t you know? The Duke of Kellynch told me. I happened to meet him at Holyhead. We made the crossing together.”

  “What’s he doing back in Dublin?” Glorvina demanded.

  “He’s sold his house here and has come to move his mother out.”

  Lady Oranmore snorted. “Wild horses couldn’t drag Maud Kellynch out of that house!”

  “Well, perhaps she can be persuaded to assume residency of Castle Argent now that Miss Vaughn has agreed to sell it.”

  The three Redmund ladies stared at him in disbelief. Lady Oranmore spoke first. “Cosy Vaughn has sold Castle Argent? Cosy Vaughn?”

  “Oh, you’ve heard of her,” said Benedict, with a derisive sniff. “From what I can gather, she’s hoping to be married soon.”

  Glorvina’s cheeks were red. “Indeed!” she said shrilly. “And who’d marry with trash like that? She’s no virgin, you know!” She gave a soft cry of sympathy as, startled by the V-word, Benedict spilled his tea over his hand.

  “You’ve burned yourself, my lord!” Glorvina cried, fluttering over to him like a beautiful black butterfly.

  “It’s nothing.” Handing his tea to her, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop up the spill.

  Glorvina drew back as though scalded. “C.V.!” she cried, spying the monogram on the handkerchief. “Whose initials are those?”

  Benedict was embarrassed. “They are not initials,” he said, thinking quickly. “All my handkerchiefs are numbered in Roman numerals. This is number one hundred and five.”

  “I see.” Glorvina smiled prettily and returned to her seat. “More tea, my lord?”

  “No, thank you, Glorvina.”

  There was a short silence, broken by Lady Oranmore. “May I ask what your plans are? You’ll stay here, of course. I will have your grandfather’s compartment prepared for you. I would like to introduce you to Dublin society, such as it is, before you marry Nuala. Have I your permission to send out the invitations?”

  Benedict paused in the act of folding his handkerchief. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I would like to introduce you to my friends,” said Lady Oranmore.

  “No; after that.”

  Lady Oranmore had to think. “May I send out invitations?”

  “No; before that. Something about marrying Nuala?”

  Lady Nuala Redmund looked from her grandmother to her sister in terror.

  “Of course, if you’d rather marry me,” said Glorvina, patting her sleek black hair, “a divorce will not be a problem. Gerald, for all his brutality, has been an utter failure as a husband. I am virgo intacta, my lord. You can have a doctor’s certificate, if you like.”

  Benedict jumped up from his chair. “I’m afraid that will not be possible, ladies,” he said quickly, setting down his cup. “I’m engaged to be married already to someone else.”

  “Break it!” Lady Oranmore said instantly. “These are your cousin’s daughters, sir! If Ulick were alive, he would be Lord Oranmore and not you. Marrying Nuala is the least you can do. The very least.”

  “I am aware of that, Grandmother,” Benedict said. “Naturally, I am prepared to be generous with the girls. But I can not marry Nuala—or Glorvina, for that matter. I must keep my word to my betrothed.” He went on before he could be interrupted. “As for my staying in this house, I shall be perfectly comfortable in a hotel when I return to Dublin. Believe me, I mean to intrude upon your lives as little as possible.”

  Lady Oranmore looked at him sharply. “When you return to Dublin?” she echoed. “You mean, you are not staying? Are you returning to England?”

  “I must,” he answered. “But, first, I have some business outside of Dublin.”

  His grandmother frowned. “Outside of Dublin? What sort of business?”

  Benedict decided it would be silly not to tell the ladies where he was going. Foolish, too, for if Gerald Napier or William Power really did have designs on his life, it would be to his advantage if his family knew exactly where he was going and by what method he intended to get there. “My business is at Castle Argent, as a matter of fact.”

  “How extraordinary,” said Glorvina, wide-eyed. “We were just talking about the place.”

  “Yes,” he said. “When Miss Vaughn heard that I was going to Ireland, she asked me to fetch her harp.”

  Glorvina smiled down at her beautiful white hands.

  “Her harp? How nice,” sniffed Lady Oranmore.

  Nuala reached for another piece of cake and got her plump fingers slapped.

  “I should probably go now,” said Benedict, who could see that his twenty minutes were up. “I was told the best way to go would be to take the Grand Canal to Ballyvaughn. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the terminus?”

  “The Canal!” Lady Oranmore exclaimed in horror. “You’d never make it there alive! Those barges capsize every chance they get, and I’m not surprised, for they let too many people on. Let Thady take you in the carriage, my lord. You’ll be much more comfortable.”

  Benedict was not in the least surprised to learn that Miss Vaughn had suggested a method of travel most likely to result in his death. Still, he hesitated to deprive his grandmother of her carriage. He offered to hire a hack, but her ladyship insisted. “Thady knows the way like the back of his hand, and he will keep you safe. The biggest regret of my life was not healing the breach with Angela before she died,” Lady Oranmore went on, dabbing her eyes with her black silk handkerchief. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, my only grandson. Do it for me, dear boy. I shall not sleep a wink until you are with me again.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother,” he said, truly moved by his grandmother’s tears. “I will be back by tomorrow evening, I hope.”

  As he took his leave, the ladies again extended their hands, and again he kissed them.

  “Good-bye,” said Nuala, speaking for the first time.

  Hearse-like, her ladyship’s black coach was drawn by two horses so sleek and black that Benedict wondered if they might have been dyed as a tribute to his dead grandfather. Black ostrich plumes nodded on their foreheads. Small and bandy-legged, Thady Lanyon also appeared to have been dipped in a vat of black dye. His frieze coat was black, his black hat was trimmed with a black cockade, and his shaggy black brows seemed almost to meet up with his shaggy black whiskers and beard, leaving just enough room for his big nostrils and tiny coal-black eyes.

  Even the Oranmore coat of arms had been obscured on the coach door by a panel of black crepe. As Benedict climbed inside, he almost expected the upholstery within to have been dyed black as well. However, the seats were done up in a pale gold brocade, worn to a dull sheen.

  The coachman turned the horses in a westerly direction, traveling on the Lucan Road. “And has your lordship ever been beyond the English Pale?” Thady asked, opening the trap in order to speak to Benedict.

  Not wanting to seem like a cold, aloof aristocrat, Benedict allowed himself to be engaged in conversation. “No; but I have been to Dublin many times. Is it very far to Castle Argent?”

  “Not at all, at all,” he was assured. “Not fifteen miles. I’ll have you there in a shake.”

  “A shake being three hours?” Benedict called, amused.

  Thady laughed. “Two, if you’re lucky.”

  “Is there an inn at Ballyvaughn?” he asked. He did not quite know what to expect when he got to Castle Argent, and he did not want to assume that he would be welcome to spend the night there if it should prove necessary. He wasn’t even sure he would want to.

  “Sure there’s nothing but turf-cutters and shebeens in Ballyvaughn,” Thady sneered.

  Benedict grimaced. “I may have to ask you to drive back to Dublin through the night.”

  “Ourselves will rest this night in Lucan.” Thady spoke with authority. “And I’ll carry you home to Lady Oranmore in the morning. There’s a respectable hotel in
Lucan, in the shade of Lucan Castle, where Lady Lucan weeps for her poor murdered son, and he with his unrecognizable body hauled out of the bog like it was yesterday.”

  Benedict took out his watch. He estimated that he would reach Ballyvaughn by eight o’clock. His errand at nearby Castle Argent should be concluded within an hour. With any luck he would be at the respectable hotel in the village of Lucan no later than ten o’clock. Cherry would be with him, of course. He became aroused thinking about their joyful reunion. He did not expect her to be anything but thrilled to see him.

  “Is there a not-so-respectable hotel in Lucan?” he asked Thady. “I’m hoping to have a young woman with me on the return.”

  A shocked silence fell between them. Thady’s disapproval was palpable.

  “A perfectly respectable young woman, of course,” Benedict said hastily. “I would not be staying with her, of course, in the not-so-respectable hotel. I was thinking that completely separate hotels might be best. I would hate to do harm to a young lady’s reputation.”

  “You’d not want to get yourself mixed up with any of the lasses in these parts,” Thady warned. “Look what happened to Lord Lucan. Cut down in his prime.”

  The Irishman kept up a steady stream of idle talk as the coach rolled through the western limits of Dublin. Benedict very soon lost track of what was to his left and what was to his right. The view from his window was one of unvarying wilderness, broken only occasionally by a small clearing, and, once, by a distant view of a round tower. Finally, as night fell, he closed the curtains, and closed his eyes.

  What seemed like only a few minutes later, he opened them again. The coach had stopped. The door was open and Thady was standing outside with a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  “I was hoping,” Thady said apologetically, “to murder your lordship at the gates of Castle Argent itself, and have your carcass fall dead at Cosy Vaughn’s feet, but I’d not want to be upsetting the other young lady, so, if you don’t mind, my lord, I’ll be murdering you here and now, in this Godforsaken place.”

  Chapter 21

  About three weeks after Ben had left Bath, Cosy received a small parcel from her native country. Opening it, she discovered a man’s ring, a black onyx set in gold. With it was a silver watch and a note on black-edged paper. There was no need to look at the inscription on the watch. She knew perfectly well it was Ben’s.

  The note began, “My dear Miss Vaughn,” but, as she had already glanced at the signature at the bottom, Cosy knew this to be sarcasm. It is with great sorrow, Lady Oranmore’s note continued, that I write to inform you of the death of my dear grandson, Sir Benedict Wayborn. You are sincerely to be pitied for your loss, my dear. To have clawed one’s way out of the mud; to have climbed to the heights of Dublin society, such as it is—to have come within a hair’s breadth of actually marrying Lord Oranmore—to have had a fortune of some five hundred thousand pounds almost within the grasp of your greedy fingers—only to be tossed back to the mire from which you came—is a torment I can only guess at as I sit in my beautiful mansion on St. Stephen’s Green—or St. Stephens’s Green, as you no doubt call it.

  Let it haunt you, Miss Vaughn, that your doomed lover died on his way to Castle Argent to fetch your harp. Let your only comfort be in knowing that his last words on this earth were—and I quote—Tell Cosy I love her.

  “Ben would never say that, you lying bitch,” Cosima said aloud.

  She told no one of the note. She hid Benedict’s watch and ring in her dressing table, next to her grandmother’s pearls, and locked the drawer. She would hold them for Ben until he returned. It was only a cruel prank. Ben would explain when he got back.

  But Ben did not return to explain anything. The following week, Benedict’s manservant returned from Ireland without his master. Five or six couples were practicing the waltz in Lady Matlock’s drawing room when Lady Dalrymple brought the news, having heard it from Mr. King. Sir Benedict Wayborn had been shot and killed, robbed by a highwayman on an Irish road.

  Lady Serena gasped, “Oh, thank God!”

  All eyes turned to her, and she hastily added, “Thank God he did not suffer!”

  Lord Ludham had been dancing with Miss Vaughn, but when he saw Serena’s agony, he left her abruptly. “My dear Serena! You are distraught.”

  Cosima stood quite alone, as cold and white and remote as marble.

  Serena clung to him as if for strength, and even managed a few tears. She actually was distraught, but not about the sudden death of her betrothed. As soon as she could shake off the sympathy of her friends, she went by sedan chair to Camden Place in the hopes of retrieving her bills. Pickering was wrapping the knocker of No. 6 in black crepe when she arrived.

  “It is only some silly letters I wrote to him,” she explained as he let her into his master’s study. “I would hate for my letters to fall into the wrong hands,” she added, wiping her dry eyes with her lace handkerchief.

  “Of course, my lady, of course,” the manservant murmured.

  But a thorough search of the room failed to unearth Lady Serena’s bills. “I daresay,” Pickering concluded, “your ladyship’s letters were of such value to Lord Oranmore that he kept them on his person always.”

  Serena’s eyes lit up. “Of course! Then they would be with him now at the bottom of the bog or whatever. Thank you, Pickering! That is a great comfort to me.”

  As she left the house, she came face to face with Miss Vaughn, who looked at her with cold green eyes. Shock and disbelief had carried Cosima this far without tears. “What are you doing here?” she demanded of the other woman.

  Lady Serena sniffed. She had come out of the house almost giddy. All her debts and obligations had been swept away. She was free. She was not afraid of anyone, least of all this Irish upstart. “I have come to see Pickering,” she said with icy dignity. “What are you doing here, Miss Vaughn?”

  Cosima couldn’t answer. She hadn’t even realized where she was going until she had found herself face to face with Serena. He loves me, she wanted to scream.

  Her ladyship stepped back into her chair, leaving Miss Vaughn in the street.

  Pickering coldly closed the door in her face.

  By the end of the week, the house in Lower Camden stood empty, as it had stood before Cosima ever knew of Benedict Wayborn’s existence. Other than that, her world was mercifully clear of visible reminders of him. She had never signed the papers granting her access to his inheritance of thirty thousand pounds, but she still had them, along with the papers memorializing the sale of her house to the Duke of Kellynch, which she had never bothered to sign either. Now, of course, there was no need to sign anything. She hid the papers, along with a few hundred pounds that remained from the “reward” she had collected for the return of the personal effects Benedict had left in her kitchen on the night they met, in an old tinderbox under the floorboards in her bedroom.

  At first, Serena wore black for Lord Oranmore, and garnered great sympathy in Bath as the bereaved fiancée. Within weeks, however, Lady Dalrymple began to observe signs that Lady Serena had begun to allow Lord Ludham to attempt to console her. Serena lightened her mourning to purple, which suited her beautiful violet eyes to perfection, and she allowed the earl to take her on long walks in the Sydney Gardens, which, judging by the roses in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eye, proved to be a very beneficial exercise. No one could condemn her ladyship; after all, she was not a widow, and, as Serena pointed out, her dear Benedict would not have wanted her to mourn him. He would have wanted her to be happy.

  In the spirit of what the dearly departed would have wanted, Lady Matlock decided that the engagement party of Lady Rose Fitzwilliam and Lord Westlands need not be postponed after all. It was to be the last great event of the Bath season, before the fashionable crowds veered off for the summer horse racing season, and, with the assistance of her now indispensable Freddie, Lady Matlock meant to make it memorable.

  Of course it was very sad abou
t poor Lord Oranmore, but…

  Life goes on.

  The last thing Cosima wanted was to attend a ball celebrating what she knew to be a sham engagement. Lord Westlands prevailed over her objections, however, by insisting that both Lady Agatha and Miss Allegra Vaughn be invited. Private balls, Lady Agatha was soon observing, were so much nicer than public ones, and she quite looked forward to it. As for Allie, the ten-year-old was over the moon at the prospect of attending her first ball. Westlands, her handsome cousin, the guest of honor, had promised to dance with her. For Allie, who would have been content to attend her first ball as a mere spectator, this was almost too much joy.

  Cosima would have to be there to look after her mother and sister.

  For the occasion, Mr. Carteret outdid himself. The countess’s ballroom was decorated with a surfeit of artificial and real flowers; the former for unfading beauty and the latter for their rich scent. Her house in the Royal Crescent resembled the garden of Eden, only with chandeliers and a parquet floor dusted with French chalk. In addition to the main ballroom, there was to be dancing outside in the Crescent Fields. On the night of the ball, this arrangement was to cause Cosima no end of anxiety, for her mother preferred to sit indoors while Allegra ran amok outside.

  “Miss Vaughn,” Mr. Carteret remarked amusingly to Lady Matlock, “is like a worried sheepdog that cannot bear to have her little flock separated.”

  “What is she wearing?” Lady Matlock asked, wrinkling her nose.

  For the occasion, both Allegra and her mother Lady Agatha had splurged on new gowns. Lady Agatha looked quite the lady of fashion in her cream and gold striped silk. Over her wispy hair she wore a golden turban with a rakish tassel that hung over one eye. Miss Allegra was equally fine in a pale pink chiffon gown that swept the floor and was trimmed with ribbons of rose-colored satin. As a special treat, Cosima had pinned up Allie’s long flaxen hair and had permitted the child to wear their grandmother’s pearls. Allie felt quite grown up.