The Notorious Lord Havergal Read Free Page A

door.
    Into the waiting silence came the sound of a young male voice, full of authority and self-consequence. “Lord Havergal,” the voice said. “I am here to see Mr. Beddoes. Is he in?”
    “He doesn’t live here,” Siddons said. He was perfectly familiar with Lord Havergal’s name but unaware of the identity of the current Mr. Beddoes.
    “What the devil are you talking about? I had a letter from him yesterday. I told him I was coming.”
    “But he’s at Oxford—a student.”
    “Ah, that explains the error. I wish to see his father.”
    “He’s dead.”
    “Now listen, my good man,” the voice continued, rising in impatience now, but still good natured. “Dead men don’t write letters, do they? Quit joshing me, and tell Beddoes I am here.”
    There darted into Lettie’s head an image of the latest cartoon of Lord Havergal, and she felt very much inclined to swoon. Lord Havergal, and he wanted to see her! Her next futile thought was of escape, but that arrogant voice was adamant. It would find her if she ran and hid in a trunk in the attic. She rose on shaking knees and went to the door. “Pray show Lord Havergal in, Siddons,” she said, peering to see the owner of that arrogant voice.
    The breath caught in her lungs, and she found herself staring like any country bumpkin. The cartoons had not done him justice, but they had caught the essence of Lord Havergal. The jaw was not quite so ludicrously large and square, the shoulders not quite as broad as a barn door, but the overall effect was of an exceedingly well-built, handsome, elegant gentleman. And here was she, in her shabbiest gown, with her hair falling about her ears, haggard from running upstairs and downstairs to check the laundry. It was not losing his admiration that galled her, but that he should see her in such tawdry disarray. Had she had a choice, she would have been wearing her most daunting and matronly gown.
    The vision stepped forward, handing Siddons his curled beaver and shucking off his drab driving coat to reveal a jacket of blue Bath cloth that fit so well, it seemed like a second skin. Beneath it he wore a flowered waistcoat. A pair of dancing blue eyes met Lettie’s glance, and a spontaneous smile flashed out to devastate her. No mere mortal had such a smile. The man was either devil or angel. Havergal advanced, hand extended to grip hers in a firm shake.
    “There is some mistake obviously,” he said with a charming bow. “Is this not Laurel Hall?”
    “It is,” she said weakly, and pulled her hand away.
    He advanced toward the gold saloon door. “Your butler is addlepated. He must have got into the wine,” he said, but with no air of accusation. She let this calumny against her abstemious butler pass without a word. “I have come to see Mr. Beddoes,” he announced, and waited for her reply.
    “There is—that is—I—am Mr. Beddoes,” she said, and felt a pink flush suffuse her cheeks. On the sofa Violet emitted a squeak not unlike that of a cornered mouse.
    Into the silence came the slight squawk of a poorly oiled hinge as Siddons closed the front door. Havergal stared at her, speechless. His questioning glance suggested this was some kind of hoax or joke. His handsome features soon eased into a smile as he decided to jolly her along. She might have influence with old Beddoes, he thought. Who could she be? A lady, certainly, though not the sort of lady I am accustomed to. He raked her in quick scrutiny from head to toe and said, “One would never guess it to look at you, Mr. Beddoes.” He smiled and glanced at Violet. “And this would be your—brother?” he asked archly.
    It was at that moment that Violet fell in love with Lord Havergal. His blue eyes looked deeply into hers, seeming to share some joke. She did like a man with a sense of humor, which just goes to prove the old saw that opposites attract. She tittered coyly and looked at Lettie.
    “My companion, Miss FitzSimmons,” she said stiffly. “Pray,