St. Raven, page 5
“No curl,” Cressida apologized. She picked up her turban with the false curls dangling around the front.
The woman chuckled. “Very clever, miss, but they do look strange now, don’t they? Like a scared cat hiding in a bag.” She stroked a hand down Cressida’s hair. “Your hair is lovely, miss. Like dark brown silk, it is, and thick right down to your waist. How do you want to wear it?”
Cressida realized how much she disliked her caps and turbans, with their false curls. It had seemed necessary because of her father’s desire that she be fashionable, but there was no need for such folly now. In Matlock, she had worn her hair in a simple plait coiled on the back of her head. She tossed aside the turban and asked Mrs. Barkway to do something similar. As the woman worked away, Cressida let her tangled mind drift.
Matlock. Last year she’d welcomed the prospect of playing in fashionable society. Matlock had seemed so dull. Now it was the sanctuary she struggled to regain.
She had to admit to a pang about London, however. Hadn’t Dr. Johnson said something about he who tired of London being tired of life?
It was the heart of the world. Men of power lived there, making decisions that would affect the fates of millions around the globe. It was the center of the arts and sciences, cradle of great discoveries. She had met fascinating people everywhere—explorers, poets, orators, scientists, sinners. And the theaters! They had a theater in Matlock, but it wasn’t like Drury Lane or the Royal Opera House.
That stirred a memory—the Duke of St. Raven at Drury Lane Theater.
It had been months ago. She’d been there with her parents and the Harbisons at the opening of the play A Daring Lady. The theater had hummed with excitement, but then the hum had intensified. A stir had directed every eye to one of the finest boxes, to a glittering lady there accompanied by a dark and handsome gentleman.
“The Duke of St. Raven!” Lady Harbison had exclaimed in a whisper—one of the truly remarkable social skills. “He’s here at last.”
This had seemed a nonsensical statement, so Cressida had been pleased when her mother asked for more information. Since the whole theater was staring and whispering, it had to be important. In moments she had the meat of it. The duke had inherited from his uncle the year before and then disappeared. Now, without fanfare, he had stepped onto the stage that awaited him—an eligible duke, a prince of the ton.
However, according to Lady Harbison, his partner was killing many hopes. Lady Anne Peckworth was daughter of the Duke of Arran—a most suitable match—and by the looks of it, the match was already made.
He’d kissed Lady Anne’s hand as if sealing the speculation, and Cressida remembered her own wistful desire. Not that the Duke of St. Raven would kiss her hand like that, but that some man would. Would kiss her hand with such elegant ease, gazing into her eyes in a way that spoke of deep devotion. She had suitors—being a nabob’s heiress—but none had shown her reverence like that.
Presumably by now the duke had kissed Lady Anne as he’d kissed her last night, and more.
Lucky lady . . .
“Now, let’s get you into your clothing, miss, even if it is all a bit the worse for wear. I’m sure you’ll feel better then.”
Cressida pulled out of the past. If any foolish notions stirred in her head about St. Raven, she must remember that he was the sort of man to attempt seduction of one lady while wooing another. So much for reverent hand-kisses.
She focused and saw that her hair was smoothly arranged. She thanked the woman and rose to dress.
Mrs. Barkway had a firm hand with the corset laces so that Cressida had to suck in an extra breath, but in a way it was comforting—a return of restraint and good order. Her evening dress looked out of place in the morning but it, too, brought respectability, even when crumpled. She picked up her pearl necklace and put it on again, then added her earrings.
“Where are your shoes and stockings, miss?”
Cressida turned from the mirror, knowing she was blushing. “I think they were lost in my adventure.”
“Well, I never! And mine won’t fit. If you don’t mind, miss, I’ll go and see what I can find for you.”
“I don’t mind at all. You’ve been very kind.”
“Go on with you. Anyone would in the same situation.” She poured the dirty water into the slop bucket, hefted it, and left.
Chapter Four
Cressida checked her appearance again, longing for a sensible day dress, and especially for everyday stockings and sturdy shoes. Now she was dressed, her bare feet felt even more peculiar. Positively wanton.
She should have asked Mrs. Barkway to find a fichu of some kind to fill in the low neckline. Ah well, it wasn’t as if she intended to go out in public.
She wandered to the window to contemplate the very ordinary world, wishing she belonged in it. Perhaps she should escape while she had the chance. Poor people sometimes went barefoot. It might not be so bad. She’d given her word, but she’d warned St. Raven that she might not keep it if she saw a chance of escape. . . .
The door opened, and she whirled, but it was only Mrs. Barkway again with—heaven be praised!—her shoes in her hand.
Cressida hurried over. “Oh, where did you find them?”
“Mr. Lyne had them, miss. But no sign of your stockings, I’m afraid. I can get you some from the village, but they’ll be simple stuff.”
Cressida was slipping her feet into the green silk slippers. “Anything would be wonderful. I had a shawl, as well, but I think that must have been lost far from here. Is there any chance of a fichu?”
“You poor dear. I’ll see what I can do, miss. Now, His Grace isn’t back yet. Would you like something to eat or drink while you wait? I don’t see why you should starve at his pleasure.”
Cressida chuckled at this, wanting to hug the woman. “I’d love something. Coffee, chocolate, tea. Whatever is most convenient. And perhaps a bit of bread.”
“I’ll fetch it, then I’ll be off to the village. No woman wants to be without her stockings and a good, firm pair of garters.”
Cressida agreed, feeling that nothing could be too terrible in a world that included Mrs. Barkway. Soon she was sipping rich chocolate and enjoying a fresh sweet roll spread thick with butter. The duke lived well in his simple surroundings, but that was hardly surprising. For all his casual ways and this simple house, he was next best thing to royalty.
Who played at highwayman.
She shook her head over that, but she’d learned that the ton often indulged in strange behavior. There were lords who played at coachman, so why not a duke who played at highwayman? Except that it was illegal and dangerous.
Was he mad, after all? It had been a full moon last night!
A knock on the door.
Cressida jumped to her feet as the duke walked in. He looked normal in riding dress of dark jacket, buckskin breeches, and top boots. No, not normal. The breeches seemed smeared with dirt, and his lip was swollen.
“Great Juno! Have you been fighting?”
“What would give you that idea?” But he smiled—then pulled out a handkerchief already spotted with blood and dabbed at his lip. “You look much restored, nymph.”
Lunatic.
Duke.
Cressida was at a loss.
“I breakfasted. No one seemed to know where you were or when you would return.”
He glanced at her plate. “That is not breakfast. I’ll be back in a moment, and then we can talk.”
She stared at the door. He was eccentric at the least, and now she had to deal with him. She sat down again and nibbled the last of her buttered roll. If she could persuade him to help, he could be a gift from heaven. She could be home soon, untouched but victorious—if she could harness a duke to her will.
He returned with a large tray and put a platter of ham and eggs in the middle of the table, then added a plate of bread along with butter and marmalade, then a bowl of plums. Last came a coffeepot, cup, and jug of cream. Clearly men, big men who rode out early to involve themselves in fights, needed huge meals.
He put the tray aside and sat opposite her. “You look shocked. Because I need sustenance?”
“Because you’re a duke and carry your own tray.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He helped himself to three eggs and a lot of ham. “Please, take some of this if you want it.”
Cressida repressed a shudder, but she did pour herself more chocolate.
“While I eat, tell me your story. It seems to be my day for knight-errantry.”
“You’ve found another damsel in distress?”
His lips twitched. “After a fashion.”
Mad. Truly mad. “This house must be becoming rather crowded.”
“Oh, I stashed her in one of my other residences. Now, your story, Miss Whoever-you-are.” He tucked into his meal.
Cressida dithered, but she needed help, so she formed a version of the truth. “Lord Crofton has stolen something from my family, Your Grace, and it is in Stokeley Manor. I need to get in there to recover it.”
He swallowed, contemplating her. “If he’s stolen it, go to the authorities.”
“He’s a peer. I don’t think I’d be attended to.”
“Worth trying, wouldn’t you say, before prostituting yourself with him?”
It stung, but he was right. “Very well. He won it at cards.”
“Cheated?”
That hadn’t occurred to her before. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then it’s his, fair and square.”
“No, it isn’t!”
He poured himself coffee and added cream. “Why don’t you tell me the truth? We’ll get there anyway eventually.”
Cressida shot to her feet. “You have no right to demand anything from me, sir! I am free to leave here anytime I wish.”
“I’m afraid not.” He cut another piece of ham.
“You can’t keep me prisoner.”
He just raised his brows and put the ham into his mouth.
Cressida eyed the heavy silver chocolate pot, but hitting him with it would not achieve her purpose. She forced herself to stay calm. Only one thing matters, she reminded herself. Only one thing. She squeezed her clasped hands once, tightly, then relaxed, and sat down again.
“My name is Cressida Mandeville, Your Grace. My father is Sir Arthur Mandeville.” She watched for some sign of recognition, but didn’t see any. Hardly surprising. Even in the London season the Mandevilles had moved in a different orbit from the Duke of St. Raven.
“He is recently home after twenty-three years in India.”
“A nabob.” He used the common term, which also implied wealth.
“Yes.”
“You lived in India with him?”
“I was born there, but my mother was troubled by the climate, so we both returned home before I was a year old.”
“Did your father return from time to time?”
“No.”
His brows twitched again. “An interesting reunion.”
That, thought Cressida, was a notable understatement, though her mother seemed to have accepted it well.
The duke continued to eat, but she had his complete and perceptive attention. She felt comforted to be telling the truth to someone at last.
“Having wealth and a new knighthood, my father wished to enter society. He bought a small estate, Stokeley Manor, and rented a London house so we could embark upon a life of pleasure and dissipation.”
“My dear Miss Mandeville, I’m sure you know nothing of dissipation.”
She met his teasing eyes. “After last night, Your Grace?”
His smile reached his lips. “A taste, perhaps.”
That puffiness at one side didn’t make those lips any less distracting. In fact, it gave his smile a wicked quirk. . . .
“Continue with your tale, Miss Mandeville. Or can I guess? Your father turned to gaming and lost Stokeley Manor to Crofton.”
She stared at him. “You know about it?”
“Such stories travel, though I hadn’t noted the names. How much did your father lose?”
She looked down for a moment and found her fingers clasped. She released them and met his eyes again. “I think he misses the excitement of life in India. Perhaps gaming provided that thrill, but he seems not to have been as good at it.”
“He lost everything?”
A lump in her throat almost silenced her. “As best we can tell, other than my mother’s and my personal possessions.”
He’d cleaned his plate and now leaned back in his chair, sipping coffee. “Surely your father knows the state of his affairs.”
“My father was struck down by shock. He does not speak and seems not to hear. My mother manages to feed him a little, but he is wasting away.”
He inclined his head. “My commiserations. But I have to point out that, sad though it is, Crofton owns Stokeley and everything in it.”
This was the crux that she did not want to share, but she saw no choice. “The truth is, Your Grace—”
“St. Raven, please.”
She ignored him. “The truth is that my father kept a cache of jewels. It was a habit he’d acquired in India, when it was apparently wise to always have portable wealth in case a man had to flee. He told me about it. Showed me where it was hidden. I know that in strict legality those jewels go with Stokeley, but I cannot feel they truly belong to Lord Crofton. He has no idea of their existence, and I’m sure my father did not intend them as part of the wager. If he’d been able, he no doubt would have retrieved them before Crofton took possession of the house.”
The duke put his cup on the table and refilled it. “Fascinating. I can see the temptation to try to get them back, but are they really worth sacrificing yourself for?”
“They are what will make life bearable. My father may never be restored, and even if he is, will he be able to make another fortune, or any money at all? My mother longs only to return to Matlock. We still have our house there, for it was always in my mother’s name. We cannot support even a modest life there, however, without some money, and at present we have only what our possessions will raise.”
She touched the pearls around her neck. A simple string of small beads. “We fought my father’s inclination to give us extravagant adornment.”
“You see, dissipation and extravagance are so much wiser. But, I have to ask, might your father not have sold his jewels to support his taste for gaming?”
He was like a vise, squeezing, squeezing for the truth. But it was invigorating.
“I don’t think so. I checked my father’s accounts. Everything is recorded there, including his losses. . . .”
She had to take a moment to compose herself. How anyone could throw away a fortune on cards she could not understand. “There is no record of the sale of the jewels, and no sudden increase in cash.”
“What does your mother say?”
Cressida sighed. “My father’s return was a great shock to her. She became fond of him all over again, but that didn’t lead her to any interest in his business affairs. Now she can think of nothing but his recovery.”
“So you face this alone. No longer. You have a knight-errant.”
She eyed him warily. “I must retrieve those jewels, Your Grace.”
“Of course.”
“Whatever it takes.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“You have no right to dictate to me!”
He raised a hand in elegant protest. “Fight that battle when we come to it. For now, we are comrades in arms against the foul fiend. However, if your father regarded these jewels as his emergency resource, why would they be in the country rather than to hand in London?”
Another excellent question. Despite his eccentricity, the duke’s mind was sharp.
“I have a hypothesis. My father has many Indian artifacts—most, unfortunately, left at Stokeley. Among them is a series of ivory statuettes cunningly made to hold things. His jewels were in one of them. I think he took the wrong one to London.”
“Careless. They must all be quite similar.”
“Yes.” She prayed he didn’t ask for details.
He sipped coffee. “You have no guarantee that he hasn’t gambled away the jewels directly, or pawned them, or moved them.”
She had to relax her hands again. “No, but I’m not being blindly hopeful. I think that the statue he showed me was not quite the same as the one in London. I’m sure that someone of his acquaintance would have noticed him staking jewels. There was nothing furtive about his gaming, Your Grace. As for a pawnshop, I’m sure he would have recorded the money in his accounts. It is his way. He recorded everything.”
“But is such a man likely to have been confused as to which statue was which?”
“He is a little shortsighted. And he did take one, just one. Why, unless he thought it was the one containing his treasure?”
He nodded. “Well argued.”
“What’s more, my father did not lose his wits when he lost to Crofton. He returned home at breakfast time and seemed normal except for being tired. My mother berated him for his unhealthy hours.”
She swallowed at that memory, and at her mother’s guilt over it. Though in truth he’d deserved worse.
“My mother went to apologize, and found him sitting in his study in the strange state that still chains him. I was there moments later, summoned by her cries for help. The statue lay on the floor, open and empty.”
“So, his jewels were his family’s salvation. Discovering that he had the wrong receptacle was the final straw.” He looked at her. “Did it not occur to you to simply break into your old home? There are doubtless servants there who would help you.”
She shook her head. “The house had stood empty before my father bought it, with just an old couple taking care of it. They were happy to be pensioned off. At least my father did it with an annuity, so they are safe.”
“You have a very kind heart, Miss Mandeville.”
“That is not kindness, Your Grace, but justice. One man’s follies should not destroy others.”
