by Mira Stables
Russet surveyed him with compassion. Just the kind of high-bred chivalrous boy to be foolishly distressed by that trivial incident in the ballroom.
“Yes, of course,” she said soothingly. “But it might be better if we rode together in the park—or I will drive out with you if you prefer that. So we may talk at our ease, for I think that the subject you are so anxious to discuss is not intended for Cousin Olivia’s ears.”
She smiled at him sympathetically. He was moved to take her hand and raise it to his lips. “I might have known you would understand,” he told her gratefully. “I will call for you, then, tomorrow morning, and you shall give me your opinion of my new pair.” With which gallant attempt at lightness he kissed her hand again and strode out into the comforting darkness, while Russet sank back thankfully into the waiting chair. Neither of them noticed the tall dark gentleman who had just deposited hat and whip on an ancient chest that stood in one corner of the hall, though he eyed the pair with mild curiosity, being unable to avoid hearing what passed between them. Rather a forward piece, thought Mr Cameron idly, appointing a gentleman to meet her where they could not be overheard by a chaperone with no more ado that he would have made over an appointment with his agent. But it was no concern of his. He dismissed the pair from his mind and strolled into his library which had been kept blessedly free from the evening’s festivities, there to look through such correspondence as had accumulated during his absence.
Chapter Three
Instinct warned Letty that it would be worse than useless to employ artifice in her approach to her guardian. For once in her scheming little life she had been taken completely at fault. Lucian had not responded in at all the way that she had expected. There were no furious outbursts of jealousy, no demonstrations of possessive passion. He did not neglect her; he was scrupulously polite. He simply ignored the rivals whom she chose to parade for his subjugation and his manner was gently withdrawn. He refused to discuss Miss Ingram beyond saying that he had apologised to the lady for her unintentional discourtesy—a remark that made her writhe in impotent fury—but she was very well aware that the two of them were on the friendliest of terms. Barbara Mansfield had actually seen them driving in the park on the very morning after her ball, and she herself had seen them dancing together on more than one occasion. No one could say that Lucian had singled out Miss Ingram for more attention than any other girl, and it was so much the fashion for gentlemen to dangle after her that no one paid any particular attention to this latest addition to her court, but Letty was bitterly jealous of every glance that he bestowed upon her rival—for so she chose to phrase it. What was worse, he had made no more mention of announcing their betrothal in the Gazette, and even Mama was beginning to be restive over this, asking if she had done anything to displease him. As if she would! And she so deep in love, the more so because Lucian was being a little difficult. It was all Russet Ingram’s fault, decided Letty angrily. She had deliberately set herself out to beguile Lucian away from his allegiance, and that out of sheer malice. Not even Letty believed that she had serious matrimonial designs on him. Grudgingly she admitted that Miss Ingram could do far better for herself. So she could only be activated by jealousy and spite because Letty was so much the prettier.
This, at any rate, was the version of the tale that she poured out to Mr Cameron. The beginning of the story she deliberately left rather sketchy. Her guardian, she felt, would not wish to be troubled with the details of the original dispute. He listened patiently enough. By now he had met Lucian Staneborough on several occasions. He would have been inclined to like the boy, save for that unfortunate first encounter on the night of Letty’s ball. As a man of principle it did not seem to him at all the thing for a young gentleman as good as betrothed to one girl to be making urgent assignations with another. Not being a patron of social squeezes he had not had the privilege of meeting Miss Ingram, but he had heard a good deal about her and had no hesitation in identifying her as the young lady of the urgent assignation. A forward piece he had thought her and it seemed that he had been right. Now, if he was to believe Letty’s rambling tale, she was also a mischief-maker, actuated by nothing stronger than idle malice.
When the tale was done he said sensibly, “Well, my dear, I am truly sorry for your unhappiness, but just what were you hoping that I could do about it? To be sure I promised my aid when you said you were in a difficulty, but short of pressing Staneborough to declare his intentions—and that, I gather, is not your desire—it does not seem to me to be a man’s business. Can not your Mama advise you?”
Letty lifted a woe-begone face to his. Her distress was not feigned. She had begun to fear that her conduct had seriously estranged Lucian. “I dare not tell Mama,” she confessed. “She would be so angry with me. She would be bound to say that I had made a mull of the whole business, just when it was in a fair way to being settled. You see she wants to bring Lucinda out next year, and then there is Cecily to be thought of. She is anxious that I should be properly established before then.”
That was plain speaking with a vengeance, thought her guardian wryly. He was not sure that he cared for such a materialistic approach. The child seemed more concerned with her social prospects than with her broken heart. Not that he would have cared for a display of hysterical sentimentality. He knit his brows over the problem.
“Perhaps a charming new gown?” he suggested. “I am not well versed in such matters but I imagine that it might have a beneficial effect. And if you have out-run the constable,” he ended kindly, “it would be my pleasure to make you a gift of just such a gown. I would suggest something soft and clinging in white, with blue ribands. Surely the sight of you so attired would soften the hardest heart.”
But Letty shook her head dolefully, and it was the measure of her distress that she did not even make the most of such a golden opportunity. “You are very kind,” she said sadly. “But I tried it—only the gown was palest pink—and it did not serve in the least.”
She looked as though she might burst into tears. Her guardian surveyed her curiously. He had not previously paid her much attention. Mrs Waydene he frankly disliked, avoiding her as much as was consistent with his interpretation of his duty, and Letty had seemed to him just a pretty child with rather less sense than a kitten. It now appeared that she had more depth than he had credited to her.
He said soberly, “Do you love him so very much?” and wondered even as he said it what this piece of pink and white daintiness could understand of love.
Letty looked surprised. Of course she loved Lucian. He was suitable in every particular—well-born, wealthy and handsome. And until that horrid Russet Ingram had crossed his path he had treated his Letty with the reverence due to a goddess. Now it was all spoiled. She ignored the fact that it was her own folly rather than Russet’s behaviour that had begun the trouble and that she cared a good deal more for Lucian now that she seemed to stand in danger of losing him. Her lip trembled piteously, but she made a valiant effort to hold back the tears since Mama had impressed upon her that there was nothing that gentlemen disliked so much as a weeping female.
“Yes,” she said baldly, in a voice that was husky from her effort to control it. “I do.”
In fact Mama’s advice served her well. Not that Mr Cameron would have been embarrassed by her tears. He would simply have mopped her up and comforted her as he might a child. But her difficulty in uttering the simplest words without breaking down prevented her from launching into the passionate appeal that she had planned, in which she would mention the probability of her early demise if she could not marry Lucian, either from a decline or a broken heart—she had not quite decided which—and, had she but known it, her simple avowal was far more convincing.
Her guardian thrust a hand distractedly through his carefully arranged dark locks—he shared with Miss Ingram at least one foible of which both were unaware, in that never, save to attend Court, would he wear either powder or a wig. “I still don’t see how I can be of any a
ssistance,” he said slowly.
There was desperation in Letty’s glance. She said it timidly, but she said it. “I wondered if perhaps you could pay court to her—Miss Ingram. Draw her off, you know.” And then, not realising how she was betraying herself, “You are very wealthy, are you not? I know that Miss Ingram was much impressed by the house and your collections. And you are really very good-looking, for an older man,” she added kindly, with an air of patronage that was irresistibly funny. “Moreover,” she went on, warming to her task, “it is said of you that you are not interested in females, and that, you know, presents a challenge that such a woman as Miss Ingram might well find intriguing. Do you not think that, for Papa’s sake”—that came out of her rehearsed speech—“you could strive to engage her interest just until I”—at which point she faltered into silence. Not even to a sympathetic audience could she bring herself to add, “until I have Lucian safe.” And she doubted if her guardian was as sympathetic as he had at first appeared, for he had thrown back that handsome dark head of his—and he was, indeed, very good-looking—and was laughing consumedly.
Letty, who could see nothing humorous in her artless summary of his attractions, stared at him offendedly. He controlled his mirth, assured her politely that he was well known for his odd sense of the ridiculous, and said that, although he was not sufficiently conceited to believe himself capable of diverting Miss Ingram’s attention from Staneborough, yet it was an approach that suggested certain possibilities. He would think the matter over and would see if something could not be contrived that might serve equally well. With that she had to be content. But since he then repeated his offer of a new gown, she allowed herself to be fobbed off without further enquiry.
When she was gone Mr Cameron applied himself seriously to the problem. His sense of responsibility was strong and unfortunately it insisted that, had Letty’s Papa been alive, he would certainly have made some attempt at mediation. As matters stood it was his plain duty to intervene. And a tricksy awkward business it was. He was perfectly willing to do all that he could for his three wards in the way of seeing that they were properly cared for and provided with every comfort, but this feminine manoeuvring was not at all to his taste. A delicate approach to Miss Ingram was obviously indicated, and Mr Cameron, who had never had the time for much commerce with the opposite sex, was doubtful of his abilities in this direction. However it must be attempted. He began to con the ranks of his friends in search of someone who might be acquainted with the lady and willing to present him—and realised anew the awkwardness of the situation. Even if he could find someone to oblige him in this way, he wanted no third party present at the interview that would follow. He began to think more kindly of Miss Ingram’s notion of driving in the park if one wanted to confer with a gentleman privately on a matter of some delicacy. In fact he could not think of any better scheme. And since there was no great urgency about the business—save for his own desire to be done with it as soon as possible—he took to driving in the park every afternoon, taking up such of his friends as he knew to be acquainted with Miss Ingram in the hope of a fortuitous meeting.
He had to wait a fortnight. By that time his patience was more than a little threadbare. To be sure he usually exercised one or other of his magnificent teams each afternoon, but parading in the park, stopping every ten minutes or so to exchange greetings with the other idlers was not his notion of enjoyment. Unfortunately it was a bad day for Russet, too. She found herself wishing that the season was at an end, though she had still to complete her arrangements for travelling to Rome and had not yet been successful in finding a suitable maid to take Agnes’s place on the journey. The trouble was her uneasy state of mind over Joanna’s future. She was well aware that any breath of scandal that touched her sister now, however remotely, might well prove fatal to the girl’s bright hopes. And Joanna was very dear to her. It was all too easy for scandal to take root and flourish vigorously in the hot dusty days of the season’s end. People were tired. Some were disappointed; others depressed as they discovered the extent of their bills. Few were in the mood to take a kindly and tolerant view of the peccadilloes of others. And if the notorious Miss Ingram, Queen of the Ton, should slip from grace, there would be many to delight in the fall, even if only as a distraction from their own troubles.
She had been so careful, too. To be honest, she had no inclination to be otherwise. A certain reserve was natural to her and she felt that the rules which governed the conduct of gently-bred young ladies were sensible and right. Not for her the clandestine visit to vulgar pleasure gardens or the secret assignation. And this season, with Joanna to think of, she had restrained even her natural friendliness, especially where gentlemen were concerned. Yet despite all her care, scandal had come perilously close. Two of her youngest admirers—a pair of callow young ensigns, neither of them above seventeen and admiring her only because she was the fashion, she thought indignantly—had indulged their high spirits in a ridiculous squabble about a rose which had fallen from her bouquet, the one claiming that she had dropped it deliberately for him, the other vowing—with perfect truth—that Miss Ingram would never award her favours so cheaply. They had been within ames ace of fighting over it. Only the blessed chance that their commanding officer was betrothed to Barbara Mansfield, and that Barbara, good sensible girl that she was, had lost no time in apprising him of the whole circumstances, had prevented a duel. The aspiring Lancelots had soon been set to rights. If they were so anxious to let each other’s blood, they could do it with their fists. But to be bandying a lady’s name about so freely, and she as far above them as the queen herself, was no behaviour for officers and gentlemen. Russet need fear no more trouble from that precious pair, he had told her comfortably.
But to come so close to disaster—and only for a fallen rose! Small wonder that she was anxious. She even had a slight headache, a discomfort that she rarely suffered. Joanna had driven into the country with Gilbert, duly chaperoned by Cousin Olivia. She would summon Agnes and stroll in the park. Perhaps the fresh air would mend her headache and surely nothing could go wrong on so innocuous an outing.
But as usual her strolling progress was continually interrupted by meetings with various other fashionables and she grew so weary of exchanging polite inanities that she had begun to wish herself back at home when a phaeton drawn by four splendid matched bays passed her and drew to a decorous halt a short distance down the track. It was sufficiently unusual to attract her attention. Most people considered two horses sufficient for so light a vehicle. But there was nothing ostentatious about the turn-out and the team was being handled with consummate skill. Russet was so absorbed in admiration of the horses that she did not at first notice that the gentleman who had climbed down from the seat beside the driver was trying to attract her attention. She glanced up enquiringly as he bowed and addressed her by name and then recognised a friend of Cousin Olivia’s. She did not know him very well for he was a good deal older than her particular circle and something of a recluse into the bargain, with a reputation for being very knowledgeable about ancient civilisations; but she replied courteously to his enquiries about Cousin Olivia’s health and assented politely when he asked if he might present Mr Cameron. She did not immediately associate the name with Letty Waydene’s guardian and having duly acknowledged the introduction with a slight curtsey, expressed her admiration of the beautiful horses. Mr Cameron gravely begged her to do him the honour of taking a turn or two round the park, so that she could see for herself that their manners and paces matched their looks. To refuse would be ungracious. She bade Agnes wait for her and permitted herself to be handed up into the high-perched vehicle.
She was given little time to enjoy the drive. Mr Cameron had scarcely set his team in motion before he said abruptly, “I will confess at once, Miss Ingram, that I have been seeking an opportunity to speak to you in private for some time.”
Under normal circumstances this frank approach would probably have appealed to her. In her pr
esent anxious mood she was instantly wary.
“In what way may I be of service to you, sir?” she said coldly.
“I believe that you are acquainted with my ward, Letty Waydene.”
So that was it. Letty Waydene. And the need to calm and advise Lucian Staneborough had been not the least of her problems these past weeks. Only yesterday Letty had put her pretty little nose in the air and pretended not to see Russet when they had run smash into each other in Bond Street. Exasperation betrayed her into embittered speech.
“Acquaintance is too grand a term, sir, for something that Miss Waydene does not choose to recognise. It would be more accurate to say that she was a pupil at the academy where I was a junior governess.”
Mr Cameron was surprised. He had expected her to be more artificial, more devious. He was not sure that he cared for such bluntness in a woman. He said slowly, “She is very unhappy.”
If only he had stopped at that point! He chose instead to add, “And though I am sorry to say it, you are the principle cause of her unhappiness.”
At this injustice all softer feelings vanished. She said icily, “I think you must explain yourself a little more clearly, sir.”
So the wench thought to carry it with the high hand, did she? He dropped the mask of courtesy. “Do you deny that you have seduced her betrothed husband from his allegiance?” he shot at her. “All the world knows that Staneborough lives in your pocket. Even I, who live retired, have seen you weaving your spells. Why? Do you mean to marry him yourself? If that were so, almost I could forgive you. But it is no such thing. Idle, useless society dolls such as Miss Ingram must seek some new sensation to spice the boredom of a futile existence. You play these malicious games just for your entertainment, regardless of the hearts that you break, the sorrow that you bring. And to think that once you were considered a fit person to instruct the young! You should think shame to yourself.”
