Lord Haversham Takes Command Page 3

  “Pshaw!” Lady Avery said with an airy wave of the hand. “Have I not kept secret for all these years that I was once betrothed to Anthony Crenshaw? And how the Duke is forever insisting he is all but engaged to Miss Crenshaw? I haven’t said the teensiest, weensiest word about that though I have wanted to desperately!” she said in an anguished voice. “And then there’s the fact that Anthony proposed marriage to the Duke’s mother. She said no, of course, and married the old Duke, though that was after she married the ancient Earl of Derby. I have known about that, well — oh my! — it seems forever, though I couldn’t have been more than three years of age at the time.”

  Harry felt as if his world had shifted on its axis. Mira’s father was once enamored of the widowed wife of the old Duke, his uncle? Could this be why a match between her son and his daughter was in the offing? Could Sir Anthony still have feelings for the Duchess? If so, his impression of a very happy domestic life between he and Lady Crenshaw was largely an illusion of Harry’s own making. Worse, what chance might he possibly have of making Mira his wife when her father was in the pocket of someone as powerful as the Duchess of Marcross?

  “Herbert? Herbert! Are you not listening?” Lady Avery urged. “You haven’t told me about the secret letter. Not one word! And I have been waiting for what seems like weeks!”

  “Yes, Mother,” Harry said with a practiced smile. “And you are correct, you are a most worthy keeper of secrets. Only, this is more serious than who is to marry whom. People are likely to, well, not to put too fine a point on it, die if you were to share what I am about to tell you.”

  Harry was gratified to see how large her eyes had grown, but was still not satisfied she would not betray his trust. “The one most likely to die should you divulge my secret is myself … or the Queen.”

  “The Queen!” his mother cried. “Who cares a pin for the likes of that German woman? The reigning king or queen of England should possess French ancestry, as do we, the Havershams.”

  “Doubtless many a French sovereign has felt the same,” Harry mused, denying himself the impulse to correct his mother as to the origin of their exceedingly English surname. “That is, in fact, the very crux of the matter.”

  Lady Avery gasped and covered her mouth with her fingers. “They want you to marry the young Queen! How terribly exciting! But how that should kill either of you, I couldn’t say,” she said with a little shake of her head.

  “No, Mother, neither could I,” Harry said, shifting in his seat. “Of course I am not to marry Queen Victoria. As French as some of my ancestors might possibly have been, I am not of the Blood Royal. More to the point, there are those who feel that our beloved Queen is not the monarch they would have seated upon England’s throne.”

  “Now you are twitting me, Herbert!” Lady Avery said with a moue. “I can’t see how Noah has a thing to do with Queen Victoria, German or no.”

  Harry stifled a sigh then took heart in the thought that should his mother ever divulge his secret, she would be hard pressed to find anyone who understood her, let alone believe her. “Not ‘mon ark.’ ‘Monarch’, as in, the ruler on the throne.”

  “Oh! Well then, we are back to that German woman.”

  Harry let loose his first laugh of pleasure in what seemed like years. “Mother, you are a true original. I think perhaps that is enough for tonight, but if further letters arrive for me, special delivery or no, I shall need to see them immediately and without Father learning about them. Can you do that?”

  “Mais, oui!” Lady Avery said with a Gallic shrug of her shoulders. “Anything to get a proper French woman on the throne of England!”

  With a wince, Harry scratched his head and thought carefully before he spoke. “I am persuaded you would prefer it if Queen Victoria were not foully murdered. Should I not answer the call to be in her service to protect her?”

  “Of course!” Lady Avery exclaimed, rising from her seat. “If this is what makes you happy, mon coeur,” she added and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Now I am off to mon chamber to await your papa,” she announced, which prompted another wince from her son who remained, staring into the fire.

  It was true that the information he was entrusted to obtain made him responsible for the Queen’s health and happiness. Yet, he was responsible for his own as well. And what of Mira’s? She could never be happy married to the Duke. Not that Mira wouldn’t make a fine duchess; she possessed beauty, intelligence, charm and strength of character, all virtues that would serve her well as George’s wife. They would also serve Harry well as his viscountess, and what’s more, she loved him. At least he believed she had, once upon a time.

  How to woo his maiden fair without exposing his secret? On the one hand, his ‘Bertie’ act would immediately discount him as the person the Queen’s enemies even now hunted. On the other hand, he could hardly win Mira’s love as the flibbertigibbet Bertie. He sighed again and raked his fingers through his golden hair. Being an adult was deuced difficult in spite of the fact he had never had the luxury of being otherwise, not in the home of the childlike Lady Avery and her childish lord.

  What he would have given for just one barefooted run through the lake at the bottom of the Abbey garden; or a climb up a tree without his mother chiding him for shredding his satin breeches; or a crack at holding the reins of his own pony and trap, a gift from his mother who thought he would look tres adorable seated in it but was never allowed to actually drive.

  If it hadn’t been for his romps through the parks and gardens at Prospero Park with Mira and her brothers, he would have grown up a very odd man indeed. It was Sir Anthony who taught him how to ride, how to shoot and hunt, how to skin a rabbit and fish with a pole. The day eventually arrived when Harry’s father felt him old enough to mount a horse and was surprised to find his son already an enviable horseman. Lord Avery was so pleased with his son’s prowess, he persuaded Lady Avery to allow it. Once the first hurdle was crossed, his parents delighted in his accomplishments as if it were they themselves who had taught him all.

  His years abroad had deepened his skills and added new ones, such as archery, fencing, and even a smattering of sailing. Latin and French, as well as the many ways and means one arrived at one’s destination undetected, were subjects of which he was already master. Italian, Greek, and German soon followed. The combination of his physical, intellectual, and survival skills, along with his natural allegiance to the country of his birth, made him the perfect choice for a secret serviceman for the young Queen of England.

  Herbert, Viscount Haversham, was an adult — one with responsibilities, commitments, and a job to do, one who had left the letter from Lord Melbourne’s secretary waiting too long. With the last indulgent sigh Harry would allow himself that night, he got to his feet and went to work.

  Chapter Three

  Mira felt dinner to have lasted a lifetime already, and there was still the fruit and cheese course to get through. As dinner was served early in the country, there was still the long evening to be tolerated before she could get into bed and close her eyes on, this, the last day before her debutante Season in London. Her trunks were packed, her traveling costume laid out in anticipation, and she and Mama and Papa would depart at first light with her brothers to follow as it suited.

  Of course, much of her clothing would be selected and done up in London, but none could possibly find fault with the new wardrobe she and her mother had ordered at the local drapery shop. As such, they would do until she could have a few more ball gowns, walking dresses, a riding habit, and her court dress bespoken from Wembley House, the townhouse her father had inherited from the old Duchess, his grandmother.

  In the meantime, the most exciting thing likely to happen was if one of the servants suddenly broke out in spots. With a sigh, she gazed about the room for conversational inspiration but found none. Perhaps this was as good a time as any to bring up the question she had been burning to ask since Harry’s visit to Prospero Park a few days prior.

  “Ma
ma,” she asked in as bland a tone of voice as she could muster so as not to alert anyone to her rather inappropriate question. “Why did Harry not come home after Eton? Is it not strange that he should embark on a voyage across the ocean for so many months without first returning home to see his parents?” The words and me were thought but not spoken.

  “Nothing strange about that, in my opinion,” Stephen replied. “I daresay you would get as far away as you could, as fast as you could, and for as long as possible if you had that pair waiting for you at the Abbey.”

  Lady Crenshaw bent a look of disapproval on her older son then turned her attention to her daughter. “I do believe it had something to do with his parents, but not what your brother suggests. Harry has always been a devoted son in spite of his father’s demanding nature.”

  “I always found his father to be somewhat tolerable,” Adrian commented, “but his mother … ” he added with a shake of his head as if mere words failed him, an action that prompted a bark of laughter from his father, one that was quickly followed by a fit of feigned coughing into his monogrammed napkin.

  “Anthony, you know it won’t do to encourage the boys in their vilification of Lord and Lady Avery,” Lady Crenshaw reprimanded. “As I have said on numerous occasions,” she outlined for the benefit of the entire family, “they are not precisely our friends as we are quite beneath them socially. However, they are our neighbors, as well as Harry’s parents, so it would not do to treat them other than with the dignity called for by their position.”

  “I believe it to have been Harry we were discussing in the first place,” Mira said, her words sounding lofty in her own ears. Surely it would not do to come across as quite so dramatic once she arrived in London, and she was determined to gain some refinement sooner rather than later. “Mama, at the time you said his departure for Europe straight from school had something to do with Lord and Lady Avery. What might that have been?” she asked, congratulating herself on her staid delivery.

  “I believe it was nothing more than his mama’s fancy that he should be exposed to as much of the French culture as soon as possible,” her mother replied.

  “It doesn’t seem to have done him much good,” Stephen said with a scowl. “I preferred him as he was before he put on his Frenchified airs. Besides which, I had always thought it had most to do with that rowing accident.”

  Mira was aware of a speaking look her mother gave her father who cleared his throat and made his foray into the conversation. “The rowing accident was just that; an accident. Meanwhile, your mother is quite correct when she says that we mustn’t belittle Harry or his parents, though I must own I have a very low opinion of his new attitude.”

  With an exasperated smile, Lady Crenshaw put down her goblet with a decided thump against the tabletop. “Anthony, you know that is not the remonstration I had in mind.”

  “I realize that, dear, but it was the one I had in mind, and quite literally, I might add.”

  The gales of laughter that followed her father’s remark seemed more than a little brash. Her brothers were two and three years older than she, but they often behaved as if they were mere children. It was enough to convince her that she ought to look for an older man among the claimants for her hand at the end of the Season. Mira could not fathom why Harry’s face should flash into her mind with the thought, as ‘Bertie’ had turned out to be the most childish of all the boys with whom she had grown up. Idly, she wondered if he might be different if he had not gone to the Continent straight from Eton, but she dismissed the idea almost as quickly as she thought it. Harry was of an age with Stephen, and there was no question he was too young to contemplate marriage in the near future, Grand Tour or no.

  Later that evening, as she stitched new ribbons into her periwinkle blue calash, Mira thought again of Harry; not the Harry she once knew and certainly not ‘Bertie,’ but the Harry who had looked at her with such intensity when he had visited Prospero Park only a few days prior. For that one moment, there was something about the expression in his eyes that made her heart feel a bit wrenched whenever the memory came to mind. It was as if the man that stood before her for that sliver in time was altogether a different person from the youthful Harry she once knew and the childish version she did not recognize.

  This ephemeral Harry was far too taciturn for her taste, but he was also ardent, manly, and entirely present. In the intervening days since they met, she had spent a fair amount of time in imaginary conversation with him, and the thought had occurred to her that it should prove difficult to find a suitor to compare with the very real Harry she had invented in her mind.

  Her Harry was an excellent conversationalist, wiser than his years, filled out his tasteful clothing to admiration, treated a girl like a lady, and, just for good measure, was capable of banishing danger with a flick of his finger. She supposed it was a dash dramatic, but, in case it were necessary, he was fully capable of wrestling a tiger or two. Lastly, but far from least important, one look from him would cause her stomach to flutter in much the same fashion it had a few days previous. In fact, it fluttered, still, every time she thought of the way his green gaze clung to her own.

  Suddenly, fresh ribbons for her headgear for the trip to London seemed utterly superfluous unless Harry were to see her with the very bow tied under her chin. Her new cape of bottle green she had been in raptures over only the week before seemed insignificant, nay, downright insipid if Harry were not to see how it brought out the sheen in her red curls. Even the most recent addition to her wardrobe, kid leather boots with tiny rosettes, seemed dull as ditch water unless they made Harry’s eyes shine.

  How lamentable that Harry was a figment of her imagination. There was only ‘Bertie,’ and she hadn’t the slightest desire to be admired by him, now or ever. She felt much the same about her cousin, George, who, as the Duke of Marcross, must be addressed by his title in spite of the fact that as children she had seen him with jam smeared all over his face on more than a few occasions. The Duke, however, was not as easily avoided most especially since he, without warning, joined Mira and her parents on their journey to London the following morning. It was all she could do not to cry out in dismay when he cantered up to the house as the family boarded their carriage.

  “My dearest Miss Crenshaw, I am enchanted,” he said as he swung down from his seat.

  She suppressed a shudder and gave him her hand to kiss with hopes his mouth would reach her skin prior to the exceedingly sharp tip of his nose — a sentiment of which she immediately repented when his warm, moist lips found their quarry.

  “George, ah, I mean to say Your Grace, how fortunate we are that you are to accompany us on our journey,” Mira said. The gratified look on her mother’s face did not escape her and caused Mira to suspect that this particular meeting was one Lady Crenshaw had known of for some time.

  “Yes, your esteemed father agreed, upon receipt of my missive suggesting it, that it would be best if I saw you safely to your destination. Sir Anthony, my good man,” George added, turning to her father with a hearty shake of his cousin’s hand, recalling to Mira’s mind that her father was, since the death of her great-uncle, heir to the present Duke. Being that George was of an age with her elder brother, she wondered how her father tolerated being treated in such a superior fashion and fancied that she detected a shadow cross his face.

  “Shall we be off then?” Lady Crenshaw suggested with an arch look for her husband. The fact that she was miffed by George’s failure to greet her was evident in her expression. His decided prejudice against Lady Crenshaw’s inadequate pedigree was one of the reasons Mira despised him so. She suspected the matter, to her mother, didn’t much signify, but Mira had reason to believe she had other reasons for disliking George. Though she wasn’t precisely sure what her mother’s reasons were specifically, there were plenty from which to choose.

  She suppressed another shudder as her cousin handed her into the carriage and settled into the velvet squabs, relieved that George woul
d be taking most of the journey via horseback. As always, she chose to be seated next to her father, in part to have the chance to be near him, but also to witness how her mother’s expression softened as Sir Anthony went through the ritual of asking if his wife was quite comfortable and if there were anything she needed. Only then and not before would he take his own seat across from her, whereupon he would lean back, his hat low on his brow so as to cover his eyes, and would at once fall asleep.

  It hadn’t taken Mira long to determine her father was merely feigning slumber since her mother’s soft chuckle would immediately rouse her father who would then, more often than not, reach across the carriage to take his wife’s hand and give it a gentle squeeze. It was then, and only then that he would turn to Mira to ensure that she was properly settled as well. Mira had asked both of her parents on various occasions what it all meant, but their reply of “It’s just a little joke of Grandmama’s from years ago,” was not terribly illuminating.

  One day she would draw the full story from their lips, but for now she watched the ritual play out with enjoyment as she dreamed about a husband of her own with whom she would share secret smiles. It was not surprising in the least that her imaginary Harry should come to mind with the thought since the single glimpse she had of him was one in which his eyes had spoken volumes. Perhaps someday she would have the courage to draw the full story of that speaking glance from his lips as well, and she shivered with delight at the prospect.

  Though they planned to suspend their travel at the halfway point to spend the night in an inn, the journey to London from Prospero Park took only the better part of a day. However, it was clear from the comments her parents made each and every time they made it that it had been a longer one in their time. As always, the discussion in the carriage revolved around how much improved the roads were, how much smoother the carriages were these days, and how swifter the exchange at the toll booths. There was also the usual talk with regards to how many estates had sprung up along the way, as well as how many more coaching inns, pubs, and shops, and so on and so forth until Mira thought she might scream. Screams, however, would not be well received, and she was a young lady on the brink of presentation to the Queen. Surely there was a better way to draw her parents’ attention to the fact that she was near to expired with boredom.