Page 37 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

37

The village of Llangollen held the crisp silence of an autumn evening as I drove the phaeton along the main street. The windows of the white cottages upon the roadway were mostly dark, with only the torches outside the Hand Inn, the major hostelry, providing light as we passed.

A few minutes before, we had crossed the handsome Gothic arched bridge over the river Dee and asked directions of a lone man upon the road. He had given us the name and pointed the way to Plas Newydd, the ladies’ residence, yet I was still unsure of the turning.

“Did he say beyond the inn and the church?” I asked Julia, slowing the tired pair to a walk.

“I believe so,” my sister replied. I heard the fatigue in her voice. “The road we are looking for is Cross Lane. On the right.”

I looked behind me at Miss Grant, barely awake, and Lady Hester, slumped in her lover’s arms and still insensible, though it had been two hours of bumpy traveling since we had bundled her into the groom’s seat. How much laudanum had her brother forced down her throat? Neither of them would have been alert enough to hear the man’s directions and so could not concur with Julia’s interpretation of his delightful but somewhat incomprehensible Welsh lilt.

Evan and Mr. Kent had not yet caught up to us, although I had expected them to do so about an hour into our drive. Had something gone awry? Moreover, I could not help the thought that maybe Mr. Brummell and Lord Alvanley had not dined with the ladies this evening. Or perhaps they had already done so and left, for surely two gentlemen would not lodge with the ladies but take rooms at one of the two inns in the town. So many ifs and all of them capable of ruining the plan. I shook off my rising apprehension and concentrated on finding our turn.

“There,” Julia said, pointing to the entrance of a rough track. “This must be it.”

“It is not marked,” I said, but I turned, hoping for the best.

The weary horses took the hill, climbing into dense woodland on either side. I was beginning to feel that creeping uneasiness of a wrong turn when the glow of man-made light appeared to our left through the trees.

“Thank God,” Julia said.

We drew into the short drive of a small but perfectly formed Gothic-style cottage: white walls and a Gothic wooden porch with wood-canopied windows on either side, lit by candlelight. I had heard that the Ladies of Llangollen had a penchant for carved wood and stained glass—often reclaimed from churches—and here was proof of that predilection. The front of the house and the porch were clad in heavy, bold carvings, and the two windows on the second floor were set with a magnificent design of yellow and blue diamond glass. As I halted the phaeton outside the porch, I saw the shapes of four people seated at a dining table. Was it the ladies dining with Brummell and Alvanley? I could not tell—the distortion of the old, thick glass set into small square panes obscured any detail. I did see, however, their four heads turning in unison at the sound of our wheels upon the gravel. I could just imagine the exclamations—who could this be? had something happened?—for only bad news arrived unannounced at this late hour.

And in a way, we were bad news. Or at least complicated news.

I drew the pair to a halt outside the front door. Without a footman on board, one of us would have to knock and offer our credentials. I had left my calling-card case in the saddlebag, but I suspected we were a little beyond presenting a card for the call anyway. I glanced at Julia, strained and pale. Did she have the strength to carry through her plan? I considered asking her if, indeed, she was up to the task, but I stopped myself from voicing the inquiry. I had to trust that she did have the wherewithal, just as she had trusted me over and over again.

Instead I asked, “Shall I go?”

“Yes. Please,” Julia said.

I passed her the reins, flexed my cold, stiff fingers, and climbed to the ground.

A saint of some kind glared at me from the center of the heavily carved door. I rapped upon the wood, then took a step back. The door was opened almost immediately; the footman had clearly been waiting on the other side, his face stiff from the struggle of suppressing his curiosity. The warm air from the hallway brought the smell of roasted beef and horseradish, the savory combination striking at my innards. I had not eaten for some time.

“Good evening,” I said. “Is this the residence of Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby?”

“It is,” the footman said, his eyes darting across to the phaeton.

“Please tell your mistresses that Lady Augusta Colebrook, Lady Julia Colebrook, Lady Hester Belford, and Miss Grant have arrived and wish to speak to them most urgently on a matter of”—I hesitated but decided I would not be overstating the case—“life and death.”

The footman bowed. “If you will wait, I will—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, let them in,” a female voice called from farther up the hallway.

The footman opened the door to reveal a dim corridor and the heavyset silhouette of a tall woman. She strode forward. “Lady Augusta, is it not? I am Lady Eleanor. Do come in. All of you. It is a freezing night.”

She had a brisk manner, her face built on strong bones, with the skin slackened by age. Her gray hair had been cropped short like my own style, but powdered in the old-fashioned way. Also like myself, she wore a dark, well-cut riding habit. If I was of a whimsical nature, it might have been a look into my future.

“I am afraid Lady Hester is currently incapacitated,” I said. “Would it be possible for your man to assist Miss Grant to carry her inside?” Miss Grant would not like the assistance of another man—especially a stranger—but practicality had to win out again. Otherwise we would not get Lady Hester into the house.

Lady Eleanor waved her footman outside. “Of course, of course. We will take her directly to a bed upstairs.” She raised an eyebrow. “It seems you come with quite a story, Lady Augusta.”

“We do indeed. I am sorry to intrude upon your evening and your—”

My apology was cut short by another female voice. “Did I hear that Lady Julia Colebrook is here?”

A smaller, slightly slenderer version of Lady Eleanor emerged from the room on the left, the dining room, if I was not mistaken. Without a doubt, this was Miss Ponsonby, her features more delicate than her companion’s but her hair and habit in exactly the same style. Following her came the lean figure of Mr. Brummell and, behind him, the wider dimensions of Lord Alvanley, both impeccably dressed for dinner in black jackets and white silk knee breeches.

“You are here!” I said, unable to contain my relief at the sight of Brummell and Alvanley.

“Indeed, and so, it seems, are you,” Mr. Brummell said, a droll slant in his voice.

Belatedly I curtsied to the assembled company, who all returned the honor.

The commotion of extracting Lady Hester from the phaeton interrupted the reunion. Alvanley, a good deal shorter than Brummel and me, peered around us through the doorway, his genial countenance knitted with concern.

“I do not think your footman is quite up to the task, Lady Eleanor,” he said in his lisping drawl. “If you will allow me to expedite the situation, Lady Augusta?”

I smiled my gratitude. “Please do.”

He edged past us all and crossed the gravel to render his assistance.

“Lady Hester Belford, is it? Are we to expect Lord Deele?” Brummell murmured, the question for my ears only.

The man was too astute by half. “And Lord Evan Belford and Mr. Kent, a Runner.”

He considered me for a long moment, then turned his attention to Alvanley, who was manfully carrying Lady Hester into the house, trailed by Miss Grant, Julia, and the footman. With some care, he negotiated the dimly lit hallway and then walked up the steep staircase. We all followed, and in a short time the invalid was settled upon the bed in a small bedchamber with Miss Grant in attendance on a seat beside it, and the rest of the company back downstairs again.

We assembled in the library. It was a most pleasant room with even more carved wood in evidence. The walls were made of carved bookcases, a round table—its legs and underpinnings also heavily carved—displayed a number of interesting objects, and a large tabby cat, not carved but seated upon a carved stool, watched us all from beside the hearth.

“Should we send for the doctor?” Miss Ponsonby asked. She sat on the sofa beside Julia. “We have one in the village.”

All eyes fell upon me. Apparently this was my decision.

“Is she breathing well? Is her color good?” I asked Julia. My sister nodded. “Then I think not. The fewer people who know of our visit, the better. Her elder brother, Lord Evan Belford, will be here soon, and he has medical training.”

“Heavens, Lord Evan Belford,” Lady Eleanor said from the armchair opposite mine. “That is a name we have not heard nigh on twenty years.” She crooked a finger to her maid. “We will have our coffee here, and biscuits too.”

I would have liked a good lump of that roast beef that I could smell, but courtesy kept me quiet. Biscuits would have to do.

The two men had taken up positions on either side of the generous fire, Brummell and the cat eyeing each other with identical hauteur. I surreptitiously angled my feet toward the warmth, finally able to stretch my frozen toes into some kind of comfort within my half boots.

“It is so good to see you again, Lady Julia,” Miss Ponsonby said into the sudden awkward silence, too polite to demand an explanation for our sudden arrival with a drugged woman, although they had every right to do so. “I have enjoyed our correspondence.”

“As I have,” Julia said. She sounded bright and energetic, but I knew she was drawing upon deep reserves. It was in the angle of her body and the way she had drawn some of the cloth of her gown into her hand, as if to anchor herself. She leaned closer to Miss Ponsonby. “You must be wondering what on earth is going on. Would it be possible for me to speak to you and Lady Eleanor in private about our friends upstairs? I can explain everything.” She glanced at me as she waited for their reply, her eyes flicking to Brummell and back again: Ask him.

I tilted my head with a frown: Yes, yes, I know what to do.

The Ladies of Llangollen looked at each other. I saw the same kind of silent conversation between them that Julia and I had just conducted—a kind of language born from love and a long time in each other’s company—and then Lady Eleanor nodded. “Of course. Come with us.”

“You are not going, too, Augusta?” Brummell asked as the three women rose from their chairs.

“No, I will stay.” I waited until my sister and the ladies had left the room, and then said, “In fact, Lord Alvanley, would it be too much of an imposition if I spoke to Mr. Brummell in private?”

Lord Alvanley—a man of consummate civility—immediately bowed. “Not at all. I shall return to the dining room and reclaim some of Lady Eleanor’s excellent claret.”

As the door closed behind him, George and I contemplated each other. If he did not agree to what I was about to request, the plan would be over.

“I know you have granted me a lot of favors in the past, George,” I said. “But I am going to ask for another. One that vastly exceeds all the others in importance.”

He raised his elegantly arched eyebrows. “Indeed? Go ahead.”

“I believe you are aware of the situation between Lord Deele and Lady Hester.”

He inclined his head.

“Deele will be arriving soon to wrest back his sister from the company of Miss Grant. Lady Julia is, at this very moment, asking Lady Eleanor and Miss Ponsonby to take them in for a few months. If the ladies agree, then the favor I ask of you is to support this arrangement in front of Lord Deele and to condemn his treatment of Lady Hester. I think you know the treatment to which I refer.”

His mouth pursed in sympathy. “The asylum. Is she actually mad?”

“Most definitely not. You should have seen what they did to her, George. We barely got her out in time.”

“So I have heard.” He saw my consternation. “Yes, I am aware of the escapades that you and your sister have been involved in over the last few months. There are others who have noticed too.”

That sounded rather alarming. “Others? Who do you mean?” I asked.

He gave a languid wave of refusal. “That I cannot divulge. Go on.”

I considered pushing for an answer, but it was taking us too far from the urgent matter at hand.

“You are the leader of society, George. Whatever you do, or publicly support, will be followed by everyone else. I want you to tell Deele to leave Lady Hester and Miss Grant alone or you will turn society against him.”

He did not demur at the statement of his power. “You are asking me to interfere in a private family matter.”

“I am. And I am also asking that you persuade Lord Alvanley to do the same. I know he is friendly with Deele, but his support would count for a lot too. As would his condemnation of any further incarceration in an asylum.”

“I see.”

“I would also ask that you and Lord Alvanley do not, in any way, report the fact that you will have seen Lord Evan.” I thought it prudent to be totally honest. “He is wanted, you know.”

“I am aware.”

I was tempted to ask how he obtained all his information, but I knew I would just receive that languid wave again.

He stared down at his perfectly polished black boots, brow knit, patently considering my proposition. I held my breath. The cat must have sensed the tension, for it stood and stretched, then settled back to lick its paw to defuse the situation.

Finally, George looked up, an uncustomary sober look upon his handsome features. “I will do as you ask, Augusta, and I can guarantee Alvanley’s support and discretion in regard to Lord Evan too—” I rose, elated, to seal the deal, but he held up his hand. “Wait, there is more.” I sank back down to my seat. “As you know, I am a collector of favors, always with a view to claiming a return at some future time. That time has come for you, my dear. I will soon be asking a favor of you and your sister, and like yours, it is an important favor.”

“What is it?”

“I cannot say. Not yet, anyway.”

“You want me to agree to a favor that I know nothing about?”

“I do. But you are a risk-taker, like me, Augusta. And I also know you are a woman of honor. This will be the return of all those favors I have done for you. Your slate, so to speak, wiped clean.”

From his grave expression, this was a large favor, indeed. And I did not like the idea of promising something I did not yet know about. Still, I could not refuse. Too much depended upon my agreement.

“I can promise for myself, but not for my sister,” I said. After our roadside confrontation, Julia would be incandescent if I volunteered her for something, particularly something I knew nothing about.

He gave a small bow. “The promise of your involvement is sufficient enough.”

What did that mean?

“Now, let us find Alvanley,” George said. “I will apprise him of our discussion and his role in it. We will then drink some excellent smuggled claret and await our hostesses’ decision regarding Lady Hester and Miss Grant.”

“And the arrival of Deele,” I said, rising from my seat and joining him at the door.

“Indeed, why else do you think we wait in the dining room? It has a view to that arrival,” George said. I glanced narrowly at him as I passed into the cooler air of the hallway; always the strategist. I wondered what that meant in terms of the favor I had just granted.

“It will be an interesting reunion,” he added, then sighed. “I do hope there is not a surfeit of emotion—it would quite ruin my digestion.”