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  THE COUNTERFEIT CAVALIER, VOLUME THREE:

  A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

  Amazon Edition Copyright 2012 Lydia M. Sheridan

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  THE COUNTERFEIT CAVALIER, VOLUME THREE:

  A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

  “Lady Alice, Lady Katherine, Lady Lucy, Lady Carolyn Thoreau!” announced Mr. Hubert Throgmorton, veteran of the war and, glory of glories! new Master of Ceremonies, hired by the village elders to give the local assemblies an elegant touch.

  As Kate descended the three shallow stairs to the newly refurbished hall, awash in gilt and ferns, she darted a sharp glance about for Mr. Dalrymple. The rooms were already full to bursting even as more attendees promenaded down the stairs. It seemed as though the whole county had come to celebrate the opening of the assembly rooms, a testimony to the newly refurbished village coffers. Even the highest sticklers, who last year would have made an appearance for form’s sake only, believing the tourists made it Too Vulgar for words, were in attendance. Though money was not spoken of openly in their rarified atmosphere, they knew as well as anyone on which side their bread was buttered and socialized accordingly.

  Entry to the dance was a mere token for the locals, for no one wanted to be left out of the fun. Hardworking trade folk mixed with yeoman farmers, who rubbed shoulders with eager tourists and satin-clad nobility, glittering with gems that usually saw the light of day only at the most fashionable of London parties. All were gathered in the same cause: the survival of Oaksley and the surrounding lands and estates.

  In front of a stand of potted palms, Miss Belinda Dogget waved frantically, pointing to four empty chairs between her and her mother. As the Thoreau ladies slowly greeted their way through the crowd, Kate glanced surreptitiously into the supper and card rooms. Satisfied her prey was not yet present, she settled herself beside Mrs. Dogget on a chair as elegant as it was uncomfortable, wondering how long it would be before she was able to claim a megrim and go off in search of counterfeiters.

  “Well, Kate, who were you looking for just now?” asked Mrs. Dogget roguishly. “A new beau?”

  "The Honorable Mr. Frederick Dalrymple!” trumpeted Mr. Throckmorton.

  The crowd glanced casually to the new arrival; a hush fell as the gaggle of persons in the entry formed into a line and proceeded down the stairs and into the room.

  First came a parade of servants from the Lady and the Scamp, carrying, respectively, an upholstered chair, cushions, more cushions, a footstool, a small table, a decanter of brandy which had never paid duty at any port, and a pillow. There was a brief pause as the servants arranged these comforts in the corner across from Kate and her party. Then, missing only a fanfare of trumpets, Mr. Frederick Dalrymple tottered down the stairs and across the floor, kindly supported on either side by two stout young fellows more usually seen in the inn’s stable.

  Gently, the sufferer was escorted to the chair. Reverently, he was eased down on the cushions. Tenderly, the footstool was placed beneath his feet. The loving hands of a serving wench adjusted his pillow, her lavish bosoms billowing in his face. Only a blind man could fail to glimpse the charms she so generously shared, and Mr. Dalrymple certainly was not. To the rest of the room, he appeared merely to wince and place a limp hand on his forehead, but Kate, who knew, caught the gleam of mischief in his eye as he looked her way.

  “Why, Katherine, isn’t that your friend from London? The one you introduced us to this afternoon?” asked Lady Alice, in all innocence.

  The three girls took one look at the new arrival, another at Kate, then tried politely to hide their laughter. Kate turned a fulminating glance in their direction, which only served to send them into gales of giggles. Even Lady Alice had to bite back a smile.

  In truth, Kate couldn’t blame them. If she hadn’t been so astounded by the ostentatious display, she would have joined them.

  "No,” she lied.

  One of the manservants from the inn came up to Kate and bowed. “Your ladyship, Mr. Dalrymple has requested your company for the first dance.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. Please inform Mr. Dalrymple my dance card is full.”

  Before the last words were out of her mouth, Carolyn had whisked away Kate’s reticule and pulled out her dance card. The small rectangle was innocent of any scribbled names of hopeful gentlemen.

  “It doesn’t look full to me.” Carolyn smirked at her sister. Kate knew that look of old, when Carol felt secure that any retribution would come tomorrow, long after Caro had had time to enjoy her first grownup ball without Kate hissing, “Behave,” if she, Caro, so much as she flirted with a gentleman.

  Kate rose with outward good grace, glaring a warning to her sister over her shoulder as she walked to Mr. Dalrymple’s lair. On reaching the invalid’s side, the servant pulled out the chair for Kate and fussed over the disposition of the brandy glasses, then left with the other servants by the back door. Now the couple was alone, but with everyone in the room watching them avidly from the corners of their eyes, various degrees of envy, curiosity, or unholy glee in their expressions.

  Outwardly serene, Kate plastered a smile on her face as Mr. Dalrymple, a vision all in black more suited to a funeral than a ball, lounged back against the cushions. He made a dramatic picture, the only colour in his toilette the crimson of the scarf tied around his head, which contrasted hideously with his bruises. He signaled for a waiter.

  “Unless you care for brandy,” he said, gesturing at the decanter.

  “Certainly not!” Kate returned primly. “A lady, Mr. Dalrymple, does not imbibe brandy, certainly not at a public function.”

  Mr. Dalrymple waited until the waiter had placed a glass of lemonade on the table next to Kate and left.

  “I have it on the highest authority that ladies will do any number of things when a gentleman’s back is turned.”

  “How fortunate, then, that there is not one present.” Kate glared at him frostily.

  Mr. Dalrymple choked on his brandy. Kate reddened. “I meant, that I am not addressing one. A gentleman, that is,” she added. “By the by, I am so sorry to see how your condition has deteriorated since this morning. Your greasepaint needs another coat of powder. It’s beginning to look a trifle shiny.”

  The sufferer lifted a limp hand to his brow, adjusting the crimson silk to cover most of his cosmetically-enhanced contusion.

  “Yes, I do seem to have had a relapse.” He allowed his head to loll back against the pillow. “Would you care to know why?”

  "Not in the least,” Kate fibbed, wondering furiously what he was up to. Surely spies crept about under the cover of darkness and were at pains to conceal their spy--er, activities.

  The invalid, undeceived by her taradiddle, grinned. “If I were well enough to dance and do the pretty, I’d have no time to investigate. This way, people will go out of their way to entertain an invalid. “A hero-invalid.”

  Behind her fan, Kate rolled her eyes in a way which would have had caused Lady Alice to faint had she seen her niece.

  Mr. Dalrymple continued smoothly, though his mouth quivered. “I plan to know everything which is going on in this village by the supper break.”

  “It is news to me that a man who captures a criminal only to be bashed on the head, allowing the criminal to escape, is a hero,” returned Kate, feigning boredom. “Furthermore, people wi
ll be too busy dancing to have time to coddle you.”

  “In that case, I depend upon you to introduce me about.”

  Kate’s fingers tightened on her glass. “Under no circumstances--”

  “Lady Katherine, Lady Katherine,” twittered a voice in her ear. “Oh, dear, have I interrupted?” Miss Barbara Radish appeared in front of them, fluttering her handkerchief. “Please do excuse my poor manners, sir.”

  "Such a charming lady as yourself could never be an interruption,” Mr. Dalrymple returned gallantly. As Kate reluctantly performed the introductions, he kissed the hand extended to him as the middle-aged spinster giggled like a deb.

  Never one to shirk her self-appointed duty as village gossip, Miss Barbara wasted no time in coming to the heart of the matter. “Mr. Dalrymple, a little bird told me,” she peeked coquettishly over her fan, "That you were waylaid by the Grey Cavalier last night. So shocking!”

  Here she paused for a moment to purse her lips and shake her head that the rascal was not rotting in chains at that very moment. It was a ritual much practiced in Oaksley by the more upright (or hypocritical) citizens, and prefaced many conversations regarding the Cavalier. Homage thus paid to morality and the law, Miss Radish felt free to discuss the Cavalier with a clear conscience.

  “Do tell us, Mr. Dalrymple, is it true you were able to fight the villain off with only a hatpin? Did you really step in front of a blow meant for the poor coachman? Did the Cavalier turn tail and run away like the cowardly criminal he is?”

  Kate listened to these idiocies with mounting ire. Beside her, Mr. Dalrymple’s shoulders were shaking with ill-concealed laughter.

  “Modesty forbids me admitting to any of those things, madam,” he confided reluctantly, eyes carefully cast down with humility.

  “Oh, for--I may be ill,” Kate muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?” the warrior asked innocently. She glared at him.

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” Kate snapped her fan together. "The Cavalier is a gentleman!”

  “Are you sure? As to his sex, I mean.” Mr. Dalrymple winked at the lace-trimmed woman taking up so much space in front of them.

  Kate gasped. Miss Radish tittered gaily at his naughty joke. With a daring Kate had never known the spinster to possess, she tapped him on the wrist with her fan and rose in a swirl of lace and ruffles more suited to a girl in her first Season than a woman of two score and ten.

  “Mr. Dalrymple, you are dreadful! I shall send over a jar of my special salve. Mother’s recipe. It never fails.” Chattering happily, Miss Radish left and was soon seen flitting from group to group, spreading the choice gossip.

  Mr. Dalrymple smirked. “Perhaps I shall not need to impose upon your good nature after all, my lady.”

  “I told you this morning, Mr. Dalrymple, I will not be blackmailed.”

  "That was not blackmail, Lady Cava--Lady Katherine. Merely an opportunity for you to save your pretty neck.”

  “Precisely what is the point of this conversation?” she snapped, eyes blazing.

  "The point of this conversation was to make you angry enough so your eyes would glow like sapphires in the moonlight,” he murmured soulfully. Caught off guard, Kate gazed back, unable to look away. A tingle ran up her spine. A blush stole over her face. Then her common sense returned with a rush.

  “My eyes are brown!”

  Mr. Dalrymple grinned. "So they are.”

  Kate’s bosom swelled with indignation. “I would have you know that I have had sonnets written about my ears, odes to my eyelashes, and a limerick dedicated to my flame-like tresses--”

  “You have?”

  She shot him a look of utter loathing. “Most certainly. Do you believe your feeble attempts at flattery will grant you an introduction to my underworld connections?”

  The man in black sobered. "This is no game for amateurs, Kate. I advise you to get out while you still can.”

  "That’s 'Lady Katherine’ to you, and I’m no amateur. I’ll have that reward, see if I don’t. Besides,” she added sweetly, “how can I lead you to my felonious connections if I stay safely at home?”

  Mr. Dalrymple grinned. "Touche. I’ll be sure to come to your hanging.”

  “And I’ll see you in Hell.” Kate stalked away, his chuckle lingering in her ears long after he was out of earshot.

  ***

  Two hours later, Kate gratefully accepted the hand of her oldest friend, Tom Appleby, for the quadrille. Hoyden she might be, but Kate would still rather dance than anything, including go on the bridle-lay. And it was a treat to be partnered by a gentleman who would not tread on her toes, gasp fragrantly into her face, or step-hop-step when he should be hop-step-hopping.

  But it was poor Tom’s toes which suffered, for as they threaded their way down the line of couples, Kate overheard snatches of conversation which filled her with foreboding. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed her fears. True to his plans, Mr. Dalrymple was holding court and learning more about the local geography than any local knew.

  Right foot, chasse, chasse--

  “—my boyhood fascination with the Royalists--”

  Left foot, jete, assemble--

  “--as a Catholic stronghold, there must be numerous hides hereabout--”

  Changemont de jambe--

  “--secret stairs and priest holes?”

  Turn, turn, balancez a vos dames.

  “--Wallingford Castle. That charming pile on the hill?”

  Pirouette and crash! Kate whipped around to stare openmouthed at her nemesis, landing full tilt into Dr. Dogget, thus ending the set in good-natured disarray. Tom led Kate to the open window near the card room.

  “Are you all right, my girl? It’s not like you to forget the figures of the dance.”

  Kate barely heard him. Fanning herself vigorously, she faced the window. “Don’t look.”

  Immediately, Tom looked over his shoulder.

  “I said, don’t look!” she hissed.

  “What’s this all about, then?”

  “It’s that bounder, that cad, that--that toad!” Tom looked blank. Kate turned her head slightly and flicked her gaze in Mr. Dalrymple’s direction. Tom turned fully and examined him through his quizzing glass. Kate cast up her eyes in despair. “I said, don’t look.”

  Tom shrugged and laughed. “Lord, is he what’s got you in a pucker? Kate, he’s no more than a dandy.”

  “He’s not.” She looked casually right and left, then leaned closer to Tom. “He’s a spy sent here by the War Office and I need to get rid of him.”

  "No.”

  Surprised at his vehement tone, Kate stared up at him. “What do you mean, 'no’?”

  “I mean no,” he stated firmly. “I will not help you kidnap a government agent. End of discussion.”

  “But Tom--”

  "No.”

  “Please, I need your help.”

  "No.”

  Kate glared at him, her mouth set. “One tiny favor, that’s all I ask--”

  “Kate, your last "tiny favor’ cost me a broken leg and a whole quarter’s allowance.”

  “You are my oldest, and dearest friend. The companion of my youth, and yet you refuse the one favor I beg--”

  Tom grabbed her and pulled her hastily out to the balcony. He had no confidence whatsoever in Kate’s observing the proprieties in the ballroom, not when she had that devil-may-care gleam in her eye. “What sort of trouble are you in now?”

  "None in the world.” She gazed innocently about, plying her fan.

  “You never look innocent unless you’re up to something,” he informed her, undeceived. A thought struck him and he squirmed uncomfortably. “Is it money? Kate, let me give--”

  "No! I will not borrow from you.”

  “Very well, pay it back if you like.”

  "There’s a great chance I may never be able to.”

  Tom crossed his arms and leaned against the railing. Kate joined him. Together they stared out into the mild evening. In th
e distance stood a dark pile, which in the daylight would be the glorious ruins of Castle Wallingford.

  “Are things so bad, then? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Kate shook her head. "Not so bad anymore. We’ll pull through.”

  Tom took a deep breath. He looked down at her. A gleam of light from the chandeliers peeked through the curtains and illuminated his face. His expression was that of a man who knew his duty and would perform it, no matter how dismal.

  “If we were married, there could be no objection to my helping you. The children need a father.”

  Kate’s mouth dropped open. Tom squared his shoulders resolutely.

  “Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage, Kate?”

  A sudden rush of hot tears stung her eyes. Kate waited for the lump in her throat to ease, then turned to him, hands outstretched. “Oh, Tom,” she said, voice quavering. “You really are my dearest friend.”

  He took her hands in his. “Well, that’s all right and tight, then,” he said with false heartiness.

  “Wouldn’t we be the most unhappily married couple in England?”

  “Yes,” he agreed fervently. “What I meant to say--”

  “Please allow me to make you the happiest man alive,” Kate’s eyes twinkled, “by refusing your kind offer.”

  Tom took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. Kate laughed, the atmosphere easy once again.

  "Now about that favor…”

  He groaned. “All right, I’ll help you kidnap him. But I draw the line at murder, Kate.”

  Kate slid a glance through the open doors to the opposite side of the room where Mr. Dalrymple held court. The dance was over and the couples were starting to drift to the supper room.

  “Fiddle. This is a situation which calls for finesse. Who are you escorting to supper?”

  “I thought we’d go down together.”

  Kate shook her head as a scheme of such simplicity and brilliance sprang to her mind that for a moment it took her breath away. Such was the look on her face that across the room, Lady Alice wondered if her niece had received an offer from Tom Appleby at last.