The Ruby Heart: A classic Regency love story Read online

  “A beautiful bride,” he murmured. “Soooo sweet, soooo fresh, like a violet in the woods in thpringtime!” Lesley caught Viola’s glance behind Janssen’s back, and almost giggled with her.

  Janssen mistook her smile, and moved closer. “What a pity you will soon leave London!” he murmured. “Cannot you be persuaded to remain for another two months? The gayeth part of the theason is upon us!”

  Burke had turned back, ending a conversation with one of the men. His sharp look went from Lesley’s ill-concealed smile to Janssen’s smirk, his closeness.

  “We will be happy to be in the country, will we not, Mrs Penhallow?” he said curtly, and Lesley started at being so addressed.

  “Yes, Burke,” she said meekly.

  “You must return her shortly,” said Aunt Stukely. “She is a town miss, you will find, not long happy in the country! She is no simple squire’s wife!”

  “Nor is Burke a simple squire,” retorted Lesley, her usual wit returning.

  They all laughed, Burke gave her an approving squeeze of the waist, and kept his arm about her as the guests began to make their farewells. At last, after about half an hour the house was almost cleared of the crowd of over one hundred.

  “What a squeeze,” complained Aunt Felicia, rather satisfied in manner. “We could have had another two hundred, many expressed to me that friends wished to come, but were not invited!”

  “I thought all the world came,” said Burke, with a hand to his head. “And you would have wished for more, dear Aunt?”

  Uncle Stukely gave one last jab as he escorted his wife out to the carriage, with Viola carefully before them, like a small girl being shooed back home. “Well, you shall probably change your mind about taking the children with you! I know you will want your wife to yourself!”

  “We all wish to retire to the country,” said Burke, positively. “I shall come tomorrow afternoon, dear Viola, for the first of your baggage. Then Wednesday morning, sharply at ten, you shall be ready with Sandy to depart!”

  Viola gave him a radiant smile over her uncle’s shoulder. “We will be ready, dear brother!” she carolled, and waved her hand at them both.

  Denise kissed Burke on the cheek on her departure. Lesley tried to look cool and composed as the woman lingered over the caress. Burke jerked away from her straying hand.

  “Goodbye, Mrs Huntington,” he said.

  “So formal, Burke?” she smiled sweetly, swaying as she moved to the doorway. “I shall expect to see you soon ... at balls, of course!” she added after a significant pause, and laughed as she went out to her carriage.

  Burke grimaced as he turned back from the door, but he avoided Lesley’s glance. Edgar had discreetly retreated to a drawing room and was picking up the evening gazette, which had just arrived.

  As Mrs Meredith stood to leave, Lesley went to her and put her hand on her arm.

  “Do stay with us for dinner, Aunt Maude,” she said sweetly. “We shall have a good coze.”

  Edgar Creswick raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I had thought ... I really ought to retire to a club, Mr Penhallow,” he said formally, with a flush. “Hadn’t thought, I am in the way, of course!”

  “Not at all,” said Lesley hastily. “I do wish you to remain. And you shall go with us to Penhallow, shall you not?”

  “Of course, of course, as you wish...”

  “I am rather weary, dear, and my carriage is called,” said Mrs Meredith. She gave Lesley a warm hug. “I shall not expect you to call upon me before you depart London, dearest. All my good wishes and my prayers go with you! Write when you have the time, and be sure I shall write to you.”

  With regret, Lesley kissed her cheek and accompanied her to the door. Her luggage had been brought over during the ceremonies; she had no excuse to go back to the Meredith townhouse. She felt oddly like a chick tipped out of the nest by a firm parent and forced to fly.

  The door closed, her friend had departed. Lesley stood at the entrance to the drawing room. Her shoulders drooped. Burke surveyed his formerly radiant bride.

  He went over to her, took her hand and led her in. Firmly he seated her on the sofa and pushed a footstool beneath her feet. “My dear, you look as exhausted as I feel! What do you say — a light supper on a tray before the fire, and early to bed? I have put you in the room next to mine, Netta is already above stairs, awaiting you. We shall sleep soundly, and be ready for all the packing and upheaval of the next two days,” he said, with such cold practicality that Edgar blinked at him.

  “That sounds perfect, Burke,” she said gratefully, and smiled up at him. “I declare, I did not know weddings could be dreadfully fatiguing! I should never have permitted myself to be pushed into this one!”

  He laughed, as did Edgar after a puzzled pause. “My dear wife,” said Burke, in a slow drawl, “I pray you, do not often repeat such sentiments, people will begin to believe I shoved you into the seas of matrimony!”

  “Did you not?” asked Lesley pertly, and laughed up at them both. “I declare, my head is dizzy with fittings, teas, dinners, champagne breakfasts, bonnets, packing, and all that. I would welcome a calm lecture evening on the subject of travels in South America among the cannibal tribes!”

  “Are they not in Africa?” asked Edgar with interest. The three of them began to laugh, and laughed as though they could not be done.

  Mortimer, the butler, came to the door, and surveyed them happily behind his placid, impassive exterior. “Shall you wish dinner, madam?” he asked, when they had paused.

  Burke replied for her, “Supper merely, on trays, and plenty of hot tea, Mortimer. We shall be comfortable tonight, after all the turmoil. And inform Netta to have hot bricks in madam’s bed tonight, I think she is chilled through.”

  “Most kind,” murmured Lesley. It was indeed nice to be taken care of, in such a kind, pleasant way. She stretched out luxuriously, settled her blue shoes on the hassock, and began to unwind from the day.

  They ate ham and eggs with hot buttered toast, and drank tea before the fire. Burke and Edgar talked of Penhallow, Lesley merely listening in a dream. Presently she went up to the room where Burke conducted her. Netta was waiting for her. Burke said, “I hope you find your room comfortable, my dear,” and went off to his.

  How soothing, how reassuring, thought Lesley. He was no masculine beast, but kindly — like a father, or brother. And so, innocently, she retired on the night of her wedding, and slept soundly in her new home.

  CHAPTER 6

  Burke Penhallow spent the following day preparing to remove to Kent. He ordered the barouche cleaned and prepared for carrying several persons, had two carriages of trunks loaded and sent on before them.

  Then about three in the afternoon, he went with two footmen in one large carriage to the Dalrymple home. He went up briskly, as one with great cares and business upon him, and rapped at the door. The butler let him in warily, he evidently had his orders.

  “Is the luggage ready of Miss Viola and Mr Alexander?” asked Burke, entering, removing his gloves snappily. He glanced about the hall, as though expecting to see the luggage there.

  “Ah — I will enquire, Mr Penhallow.”

  He was bowed into the drawing room, allowed to cool his heels for half an hour. Mrs Stukely finally came down, prepared to argue.

  He interrupted her quickly. “I have no time for arguments,” he said, in his coldest tone. He drew himself up to full height. “I wish the luggage brought down at once. I cannot stand about waiting all the day! I have much business to attend.”

  She quivered, finally allowed his footman and him to go upstairs to see what was ready. Viola was in her bedroom, her two trunks ready, several hatboxes stuffed with bonnets, two other cases open.

  “You came!” she breathed, her hands clasped before her, as though in prayer.

  “Good afternoon, dear sister,” he smiled, and kissed her cheek briskly. She felt chilled.

  Uncle Stukely followed his wife into the room. “Sandy is quite ill
, he cannot move about,” he said aggressively. “There is no point in packing his luggage, he cannot go!”

  Burke stiffened. “He shall go, though he be ill,” he said firmly. “The country air will do him good! I shall come for him and for Viola tomorrow.” He directed the footman to take down what was ready, adjured Viola to be ready at ten, and, returned home, frowning.

  Lesley was in the drawing room, dressed in a pale muslin gown, looking exhausted. She had slept late, he had made sure of that, giving firm orders she was not to be disturbed even with morning tea or the opening of draperies. Emotion was very wearing for a female, thought Burke, and he must have a care of her.

  “Ah, splendid, you are up,” he said heartily, rubbing his hands before the fire. “Shall you be ready quite early tomorrow? I have decided to go and pick up the children earlier than I had said.”

  She started up, sitting upright on the chaise longue. How elegant she looked, her slim rounded body in the flimsy muslin, the blue ribbons at her waist and throat. Her mind was too quick, he realized. “There is something wrong! Sandy? Viola?”

  “Sandy,” he admitted shortly. “Now, do not fret. Uncle Stukely insisted the lad was too ill to travel. Ill or not, he shall go, but I may have an argument with Uncle Stukely tomorrow on that subject. So let us start out early, before they are all up and ready to give argument. I thought if we left the house here at eight, and went right over...”

  “Oh, yes, yes! Or perhaps if we could go now, and get him...”

  “No, let us keep that much to the original plan. My men still watch, they will notify me at once if anything is attempted. Have you had tea?”

  She shook her head. There were dark shadows under her fine grey eyes, she had not slept well for a time, he thought. She was too thin, hollows showed about her wrists. And she was all nerves just now, starting at a sound, her hand to her round breasts. “No, I am not hungry. Burke, what if they lock him up? Refuse to let him go?”

  “My men are quite in condition,” he said. “They shall break down the doors. All right?” He smiled down at her, coaxing her smile to come.

  It came, wavering a little, her hand went quickly to her eyes, brushing against them. “Oh, Burke, I have such nightmares ... poor dear Sandy...” Her voice broke.

  “Do not allow your imagination full play, my dear Lesley,” he said. He had to hold himself back from sinking down beside her, taking her into his arms, holding that lovely red-gold head against his shoulder. He pictured himself comforting her, and it was a pleasant thought. She was lovely of form, and the sweet anxiety on her face made her look softer and more feminine than he usually saw her. “We shall all remove to Kent tomorrow, and then be able to relax. Sandy’s rooms will be in the nursery, I have ordered some new toys sent there,” he added, to give her something else to think about.

  “You are kind to think of that, dear Burke,” she murmured gratefully.

  Complacently, he basked in her full approval for once. Tea was brought, Edgar joined them rather shyly, unwilling to be so continually in the presence of the newly married couple. However, he was so tactful, so full of comment on the national scene, the war, politics, what was being considered in Parliament, that he made conversation much more easy among them all.

  Burke rose very early the next morning and was pleased to find his household bustling about. He had given them all their instructions, it was unnecessary to repeat much. Lesley had risen early also, and came down in her travelling gown of dark green wool. Footmen followed with her last trunks and cases.

  Burke insisted on her eating some breakfast, though she but picked at it, her glance going continually to the tall clock in the corner. He finally gave up and had the barouche brought around, with the final three carriages of trunks to follow. The Dalrymple townhouse was on their way out of London, towards the Dover Road, so that would not impede them, to stop there.

  At eight o’clock in the morning, they rolled up at the Dalrymple townhouse. A sleepy butler came to the door, his eyes widening as he saw the grand procession halted in the street before him. Horses pranced, coachmen ran about, the outriders were calling instructions; a couple of early-morning gentlemen scowled at finding their way obstructed by the grand array of travelling coaches.

  The butler gasped. “I was told ten o’clock, Mr Penhallow!”

  “We are ready early, anxious to be off,” said Burke cheerfully. He had told Lesley to wait in the barouche. He would manage all. “Are the children ready? I warrant they have been up since six!”

  Viola sped down the stairs before the butler could answer. “I heard your carriages arrive ... oh, dear brother, I am ready!” she carolled, her blue eyes sparkling. She wore her dark blue wool travelling gown and a cloak over it, her bonnet tied neatly beneath her chin.

  “Splendid,” he smiled, in secret relief. If she had been asleep, or dawdling over her dressing, all his plans might have gone awry. “Go on out and join your sister, I shall get Sandy ready.”

  He took the shallow steps two at a time and made his way up the next set of stairs also. Then he had to walk along the corridor to the back to the nursery stairs. He walked silently, but out popped a head in a nightcap. Uncle Stukely had heard the commotion.

  “What is going on? Penhallow! You are too early ... just a minute, sir, where are you going?” Out in the hall he came, bulky in a bright red flannel nightdress, dignity forgotten, his nightcap tassel bobbing as he hopped along on bare feet.

  “Just getting Sandy ready, good morning, sir!” cried Burke heartily, and nimbly flashed up the narrow nursery stairs.

  He found Sandy standing in the middle of the room, struggling into his trousers and shirt. Burke caught him up. “Well, there you are, young man! Ready to travel!”

  “Yes, Uncle Burke!” said Sandy smartly, and flashed a weary smile at him. Burke’s heart was caught. What Lesley had said was all too true. Sandy was so thin, so worn, and his bare legs had fresh welts all over them. The cuts were healing, but he had been cruelly whipped.

  His trunks were not packed, nor his cases. His governess came from her room next to his, warned by the voices. She was fully dressed, Burke was thankful to see, in her dove-grey dress. Alarm flared in the sunken eyes.

  “Mr Penhallow! Whatever are you doing? Sandy is ill ... he cannot ... he cannot go out!”

  As she tried ineffectually to stop him, Burke made up his mind. He whipped a blanket off the bed, wrapped Sandy in it, and started out of the door. “I’ll come back for his trunks, pack them quickly!” he cried, with mock gay manner. “We are off to the country, dear boy!” he said to Sandy, laughing. “Early as birds are we!”

  He felt a little hysterical, facing Uncle Stukely halfway up the nursery stairs. He raced past him, calling, “I’ll be back for the luggage! Do hurry, we wish to make haste for Kent and be home by nightfall!”

  Uncle Stukely yelled after him, “Bring that boy back here! He is not to go with you! The courts have not yet decided — bring him back!”

  Burke did not turn about. He raced down the stairs, the pale face of Sandy half-hidden by the blanket. He went past the staring footmen, maids and butler, out into the chill April air. At the barouche door, Edgar stood waiting. Burke handed the boy into the barouche, into Lesley’s lap, saying quietly, “I’m returning for his gear. Do keep him — Let no one touch him. The coachmen will have orders ... shut the door, Edgar.”

  He waited only to see Lesley clasp Sandy tightly to her. Edgar was shutting the door as Burke ran back to the house. To the coachmen waiting, he said, “Start up the barouche, turn it about, and be ready to go at my signal. If I do not return from the house in ten minutes, start for the Dover Road!”

  “Yes, sir,” said the chief coachman, and got up into his seat. As Burke entered the house, the barouche was turning about in stately unhurried manner in the middle of the street.

  He forced his way back up the stairs, facing furious Uncle Stukely, flurried servants, and a weeping Aunt Felicia, splendid in lavender gown and
mobcap of lavender and lace.

  “But you cannot do this!” she kept crying. “You cannot do this ... it is against the law ... Stukely, tell him!”

  Four of Burke’s sturdy footmen had followed him up the stairs, faces impassive, inwardly amazed and delighted at the turmoil. What goings-on! What scandal! What gossip! What talk below-stairs!

  Burke arrived again, slightly breathless from his race, in Sandy’s nursery room. The governess had sunk into a chair and was weeping, her apron before her face. She knew she would be blamed. Burke tore another blanket from the bed and thrust it into the footman’s hands. “Take the clothes from the drawer,” he ordered curtly. “Pile it all in, when it is full, tie it up and take it to the carriage.”

  He tore a sheet from the bed, gave it to another man, and as he filled up the sheet with the small clothes, Burke glanced about. He spotted a worn stuffed animal, took a pillow case from the bed, stuffed the toys into it. Sandy would want his toys ... and his books...

  Two dozen books pushed hastily into another pillow case, handed to a footman. Toys swept up and poured into more cases, this time from the bed of the governess. Another sheet full of warm coats and hats, little jackets, trousers. The room was ruthlessly stripped clean, but for the furniture.

  “That’s the lot,” said Burke and ran down the stairs, the footmen following. Out to the carriage he rushed, shaking off the protesting, angry hands of Uncle Stukely. The servants stood back, they were having none of this tall man with such anger in his look. They were, at the moment, more afraid of Burke and his coldly furious actions than of Hubert Stukely.

  The barouche was proceeding to the end of the street. The lead coachman glanced back over his shoulder, then touched the whip lightly to the lead horse of the team. It jumped up in the traces, and began to gallop along the street, swayed around the corner, and was lost to sight. Burke dumped his load into the nearest carriage, then took the reins of his high-perch phaeton, and smiled grimly down at Uncle Stukely.