The Wolfe's Mate. Paula Marshall
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just been joined by his lady, ‘Is that George Darlington over there?’
It was Lady Leominster who answered him eagerly, ‘Oh, indeed.’ She leaned forward confidentially, saying, ‘He is speaking to Amelia Western, the great heiress. I am sure that he is about to propose to her tonight.’
‘He is?’ Ben looked at them again, and asked, apparently idly, ‘I see that he has two young ladies with him. Which is the heiress?’
Never loath to pass on information, Lady Leominster answered, ‘Oh, the young woman on his left.’
She was, of course, wrong—but then, she had never known her right from her left—but before Lord Leominster could open his mouth to correct her, she had seized Ben Wolfe’s arm and exclaimed, ‘Oh, do come and be introduced to Lady Camelford, she has two beautiful daughters, both unmarried, and both, I am assured, well endowed for marriage’—so the mistake went uncorrected.
She was never to know that her careless remark would profoundly alter the course of several lives.
Ben had no further opportunity to see George Darlington or his future bride together, but later in the evening, as he was about to leave, Miss Western suddenly came out of one of the ballrooms. He was able to step back and inspect her briefly at close range.
She was modestly dressed, to be sure, but in quiet good taste in a dress of plain cream silk. She sported no other jewellery than a string of small pearls around her neck. She was no great beauty, either, but that was true of many heiresses, and he could only commend those who were responsible for her appearance in not succumbing to the desire to deck her about with the King’s ransom which she undoubtedly owned.
Susanna, on her way back to the ballroom, was aware of his close scrutiny. She had seen him once or twice during the evening and his appearance had intrigued her. One of the other companions, to whom she had chatted while the musicians were playing and their charges were enjoying themselves in the dance, had told her who he was and that he was nicknamed the Wolf.
She thought that the name suited him. He was tall, with broad shoulders, a trim waist and narrow hips—in that, he was like many of the younger men present. But few had a face such as his. It was, she thought, a lived-in face, still tanned from the Indian sun, with a dominant jutting nose, a strong chin, a long firm mouth—and the coldest grey eyes which she had ever seen. His hair was jet-black, already slightly silvered although he was still in his early thirties.
Susanna had read that wolves bayed at the moon and that they were merciless with their prey. Well, the merciless bit fitted his face, so perhaps he bayed at the moon as well—although she couldn’t imagine it.
Her mouth turned up at the corners as she thought this and the action transformed her own apparently undistinguished face, giving it both charm and character, which Ben Wolfe registered for a fleeting moment before she passed him.
So that was the young woman who was going to revive Babbacombe’s flagging fortunes. He had seen prettier, but then, money gilded everything, even looks, as he knew only too well. He laughed soundlessly to himself. Oh, but Amelia Western’s fortune was never going to gild Lord Babbacombe’s empty coffers—as he would soon find out.
If Susanna could have read Ben Wolfe’s most secret thoughts she would have known exactly how accurate his nickname was and how much he was truly to be feared. As it was she returned to the ballroom feeling, not for the first time, cheated of life: a duenna soon to reach her last prayers, doomed to spinsterhood because of the callous behaviour of a careless young man.
Francis Sylvester had never returned to England. He had taken up residence in Naples and seemed set to stay there for life.
Susanna shivered, but not with cold. She wanted to be a child again, home in bed, all her life before her. After she had been jilted, everyone had praised her coolness, the courage with which she had faced life, but once she had ceased to be a nine days’ wonder she had been forgotten. When Miss Stanton died and she had returned to society as Amelia Western’s companion, there were few who remembered her.
She was perpetually doomed to sit at the back of the room, unconsidered and overlooked. She had visited her old home, but her mother and stepfather had made it plain that they had no wish for her company, even though the scandal surrounding her was long dead. There was no place for her there, now.
‘You’re quiet tonight, Miss Beverly, are you feeling a trifle overset?’ asked one of her fellow companions kindly.
‘Oh, no,’ replied Susanna briskly. She had made a resolution long ago never to repine, always to put a brave face on things. ‘It’s just that, sometimes, one does not feel in the mood for idle chatter.’
‘I know that feeling,’ said her friend softly. ‘You would prefer a quiet room and a good book, no doubt, to being here.’
And someone kind and charming to dance with, thought Susanna rebelliously, not simply to sit mumchance and watch other young women dance with kind and charming young men.
But she said nothing, merely smiled and watched Ben Wolfe bearded again by Lady Leominster and handed over to Charlotte Cavender, one of the Season’s crop of young beauties and young heiresses. For a big man who was rumoured to have few social graces he was a good dancer, remarkably light on his feet—as so many big men were, Susanna had already noticed.
She sometimes thought it a pity that her common sense, her understanding of the world and men and women, honed by her opportunities for ceaseless observation would never be put to good use.
Stop that! she told herself sternly, just at the moment that the patterns of the dance brought Ben Wolfe swinging past her. To her astonishment, he gave her a nod of the head and a small secret smile.
Now, whatever could that mean?
Probably nothing at all. He must have meant it for his partner, but she had gone by him before she had had time to receive it. Susanna watched him disappear into the crowd of dancers, and then she never saw him again.
It was a trick of the light, perhaps, or of her own brain which was demanding that someone acknowledge that she still lived other than as an appendage to Amelia, who, having been proposed to by young Darlington, would shortly not be needing her services any more.
Which would mean turning up at Miss Shanks’s Employment Bureau off Oxford Street to discover whether she had any suitable posts as governess, companion or duenna for which she might apply.
The prospect did not appeal.
Now, if only she were a young man, similarly placed, there were a thousand things she could do. Ship herself off to India, perhaps, and make a fortune—like Ben Wolfe, for example.
Drat the man! Why was he haunting her? She had never looked at a man other than in loathing since Francis’s betrayal and now she could not stop thinking about someone who, rumour said, was even more dubious than Francis.
And he wasn’t even good-looking and she hadn’t so much as spoken to him! She must be going mad with boredom—yes, that was it.
Fortunately, at this point, Amelia returned and said excitedly, ‘Oh, Miss Beverly, I feel so happy now that George has finally proposed. It will mean that once I’m married I shall be my own mistress, do as I please, go where I wish, and not be everlastingly told how a young lady ought to behave.’
Susanna could not prevent herself from saying, ‘You are not worried, then, that George might demand some say in where you go and what you do?’
‘Oh, no.’ Amelia was all charming eagerness. ‘By no means. We have already agreed that we shall live our own lives—particularly after I have provided him with an heir. That is understood these days, is it not?’
And all this worldly wisdom between future husband and wife as to their married life had been agreed in less than an hour after the proposal!
‘Of course,’ said Amelia. ‘It will mean that I shall not be needing a duenna after the wedding ceremony. But then, you knew that would be the case when you undertook the post. It’s