Mary was in Anne’s bedchamber sewing by candlelight, while Robbie, her son, sat at her knee reading aloud from Gulliver’s Travels. He had reached a certain exciting part in the land of the Houyhnhnms and Yahoos, so Anne sat as Mary finished a hem and Robbie breathlessly recounted an adventurous part of the tale. She spoke with him briefly about the tale, then said goodnight to the boy, who, accompanied by his mother, slipped off to his cot in the bedchamber he shared with her. When Mary returned to help her mistress prepare for bed, Anne recounted her day, ending with her conversation with her mother.
“I had to disabuse her of the notion that Tony will be the toast of Bath and everywhere beloved,” she said with a smile, catching Mary’s eye in the mirror. “He will be courted, yes, and feted and deferred to, but I fear that few will like him or understand him.” Her smile died, and she continued: “Also, she did not want to invite my father to celebrate. How could she think that I would agree, when Papa will so dearly love to see Tony and Osei again? I can honestly say that my father is the parent of whom I am most proud, and most confident.”
“Aye, milady, but you’re far too hard upon your puir mother. She hasnae to do but visit and gossip. Your wedding will be her crowning happiness.”
“I won’t be certain of that until I see her and Tony together. He’s likely to offend her and dash all her dreams of showing him off in Bath.”
Chapter Eleven
Anne awoke to a dull and dreary day, wind pelting rain against her window, and little change in the light in her room even as the maid opened her drapes. Anne and Mrs. McKellar did their final fittings, and then she took the carriage and they shopped for fripperies. Gloves, hats, shoes, buttons, ribbon, fans, and lace. Fabric for wedding clothes for Mary and Robbie, which Anne decided to commission Mrs. McKellar to sew, though Mary would usually do that for her own dresses and her son’s clothes.
After taking an early dinner with her grandmother, Anne retreated to her rooms and readied for another musical night at the Birkenheads’. They adored music and this time had secured a piano player of great ability, Alethea had told Anne in the note of invitation she sent around. Since Lord Westmacott was a supporter of the young pianist composer, he offered to escort Anne to the event, and she gladly agreed. Unlike many an older gentleman reputed to be a roué or rogue in his younger days—Lord Westmacott, patched and bewigged, figured in her grandmother’s more scandalous tales of the earlier part of their century—she felt completely comfortable in his presence, and wondered if those stories had been amplified by time and gossip, or if he had simply aged past such behavior. He never once made her feel alarmed by too warm a hand press or a suggestive quip.
Dressed in one of her favorite gowns, a lovely indigo watered silk, with a string of pearls and pearl earrings her only adornment, she descended and moments later her escort arrived. She donned her new hooded cloak for warmth, but left the hood off her intricate hairstyle. As always he complimented her look, and how the blue of the gown brought out her eyes. In the dark of the carriage they spoke quietly about the evening ahead.
“How do you know this pianist?” Anne asked.
“One hears of talented young men, you know, and one does wish to support artists, if one has the ability. It isn’t all opera dancers, you know,” he said with a smile she could hear in the dark.
“I know that, my Lord Westmacott,” she said with a laugh. It was impossible to picture the courtly and handsome elderly gentleman as a young hot-blooded rogue, wooing a fair fallen maiden. But she was not one who felt that people of the past weren’t just as capable as modern-day ladies and gentlemen of sinning. She had heard too many of her grandmother’s tales to imagine that. “You know Quin and Bertie well, don’t you?”
“I do. Their grandmother was a great heiress, quite the catch in my youth. Beautiful, with skin like cream, eyes like sapphires. Heartbreakingly lovely,” he said, his voice quietly contemplative in the dark of the carriage. “Our families were friends. She was my constant companion and I would have married her, but alas, she was wed to another gentleman whose charms were more obvious to her parents.”
“She broke your heart?”
“In those days I’m not sure I had a heart for breaking. I was very young, a mere stripling. But . . . perhaps. T’was not her fault, of course, for young ladies had little say in their betrothals in those days. You’re fortunate, young lady, that you live now, and within a family that will allow you to choose your husband.” He sighed. “I never saw her equal again. I can’t say I blame her father. I fear I was not quite the thing in my day, even in my teen years.”
“Don’t ever tell me that you had a bad reputation,” she said with a teasing tone, trying to erase the sadness she heard in his voice.
“I did. And earned, I must say,” he said with a sly chuckle that echoed in the carriage. “You would not recognize me as I was.”
“You must be happy Alethea and Bertie found each other; I have seldom met a couple so perfectly suited to each other.”
“In more ways than you know,” Westmacott said, and Anne could again hear the smile in his voice. “More ways than you will ever know.”
They arrived at Pierrepont Place and were greeted with many of the same guests as last time. The Birkenheads had an exclusive group of friends, and everything was of the highest elegance. Anne smiled to see the same people speaking of much the same topics . . . gossip about absent friends and foes alike.
Finding herself beside Alethea, who was beautifully gowned in green velvet, Anne complimented her, then said, “Where is Mrs. Venables this evening?”
With an arch look, she answered, “Bella has not been here all day. At dawn’s light her beau picked her up in his carriage and they took a trot to the countryside to see a property he is considering purchasing to make their home.”
“Outside of Bath? But I thought he lives in town.”
“Oh, he does, but he has a dream of tending goats, or chickens, or bees, or some such madness.”
“So speaks the city dweller, my friend Alethea!” Anne chuckled, nodding to some acquaintances. She turned back to her friend, fondly touching her arm. “Do you remember when we were young you told me to call you Thea! For a while you were determined to run away and fight the rebels in the colonies. Then you said you were going to become a pirate and sail the seven seas. You had maps, and spent hours charting your course.”
“That was one year,” she said with a grin, looking, for a moment, very much as she had at fifteen. “The next, I believe I wanted to become a poet and starve to death in a London garret.”
“A poet? I thought you were to become a painter. Remember that shocking painting teacher we had at the academy, the one who was rumored to paint from nude models in his ratty room?”
Alethea sent her a sly look, her eyes alight. “I have a secret, Anne,” she whispered. “He did! I saw one. I crept away one day and found his hovel outside the village and tapped on his door. He was in the middle of a painting of the most radiant titian goddess . . . a beautiful woman who was completely, absolutely naked, sprawled on a velvet cover on his divan.”
Anne, eyes wide, felt a burble of laughter and she giggled uncontrollably, holding her painted fan over her face to hide the outburst. “Oh, my! Shocking! Did he invite you in?”
“After much persuasion on my part. I believe I blackmailed him, threatening to expose his dastardly secret to our headmistress if he didn’t let me observe.”
“So that’s where you kept going, am I correct? Did you creep out to visit the painter often?”
“I did.”
“You talked of nothing but becoming a painter, like him. You were madly in love with him.”
Alethea sent her a startled look. “I didn’t think you knew of my passion.”
“But I did, for all I couldn’t understand the attraction of a fellow who could not keep his cravat on straight.”
Alethea laughed, her cheeks pink. “I did not think you had plumbed the depths of my soul quit
e so thoroughly. I was in love, it is true.” With a sweet expression, she reached out and touched Anne’s cheek. “It is so good to see you, my friend, and to have you here in Bath once more.”
Anne covered her hand and smiled. “When I am not here, I think of you often. And I am a good correspondent, am I not?”
“You are,” Alethea said, patting her cheek. “But it’s not the same.”
Anne linked her arm with Alethea’s and hugged it to her. “You don’t know how good it is to speak with a friend who has more to talk about than gossip and clothes. To know there is a woman out there who thinks of more than her hair . . . it’s wonderful!”
“Though I do still think about my hair,” she said, touching her intricate hairstyle, woven with pearls and dyed feathers. “And so do you, don’t deny it!”
With a happy sigh, Anne admitted it. “But it’s not all I think about, and that is my point, my dear friend. It is good to have an ally with whom I can share memories, and speak of real things.”
The evening was cheery and comfortable. Anne took a seat near the instrument and listened as the pianist played a few lively Haydn sonatas, the light tripping of his fingers over the keyboard an enchantment. Lord Westmacott sat beside Anne, his fingers counting out the time on his satin-breeched knee as he nodded approvingly.
“He’s very good,” Anne whispered.
“Isn’t he, though? I am determined to help him find his way. He is a retiring young man with no idea how exceptional he is.”
After his performance, the young man immediately sought out his mentor and was taken around the room for introduction, his pale face flushed with satisfaction and wine as he was plied by their receptive audience. Bertie seemed particularly taken and invited the young man to come back and play for them again. Westmacott frowned and put his arm over the young man’s shoulders, guiding him away to speak quietly to him. Chastened, the musician stayed by the side of the elder gentleman for the remainder of his time among the company. Anne smiled into her fan; Westmacott fancied himself somewhat of an impresario, not just of opera singers but composers and other performers too, and zealously guarded his protégés, wishing to keep all accolades for his discoveries to himself.
After a light supper, which not every person attended, Anne followed the ladies to the drawing room again, where they were joined immediately by the gentlemen. Bertie admitted with a laugh that he saw no point in keeping to the company of gentlemen when there were so many enchanting ladies with whom to speak.
Alethea sent him a look of admonishment across the room, but burst into laughter. “What a flirt my husband is!”
Lady Sharples cornered Anne by the second fireplace and said, with an arch look, “Since our last conversation I have heard much gossip of your spring and summer travels to the north and to Cornwall.” She leaned close, her breath smelling of wine and her person of perfume and powder. “You have been having adventures, my friend,” she said, tapping Anne’s arm with her closed fan. “Having them in the company of a certain elusive marquess, one Lord Darkefell. It is the talk of Bath.”
Anne sighed. She had hoped to avoid the topic for one evening at least, but it was not to be. “He is the brother-in-law of a dear friend, Lady Lydia Bestwick. They—Lydia and Lord John Bestwick—are currently in Bath, so—”
“Oh, come, don’t play coy with me.” Lady Sharples had a gimlet gaze through the lorgnette she employed to good use, and she stared, unblinking, into Anne’s eyes.
But Anne would not be broken and would not reveal before she was ready her intentions. She stayed quiet, keeping her countenance placid, and watched their friends chat and laugh. It was a test of wills, and she would not give in.
Finally the woman was forced back into speech by Anne’s determined silence. “All right; you are better at this game than my usual victim, but I am not afraid to confront gossip and wrestle it to the ground. I’ll tell you plain, rumor has it that you have captured the heart of the dark and mysterious marquess. I have seen the man once, years ago, and I admit, I find it hard to imagine you and he would suit.” She eyed Anne up and down critically.
It was insulting that she should be examined and found wanting, but Anne was aware of what charms she possessed and those she didn’t so she was determined not to be offended, though the woman’s insult was one that she knew would be repeated once the truth came out. “Most would agree with you on that point,” she said, with a forced placidity she considered a rehearsal for the next month or more, especially once her engagement had been announced.
“He is terribly intense, with those eyes . . . seems like he stares right through you.” She shivered, but it was with a smile that tugged the corners of her mouth. “I’ll admit though, he is a very well-looking man . . . nicely set up, if you know what I mean without saying.” She eyed Anne in a calculating fashion. “I fear, though, he is much more the type to choose some fluff-brained girl in her first Season, one he can breed and then ignore. Do you not think? You have no hopes in that direction, I assume?”
Anne took in a sharp breath to retort at such a crude insult to the marquess and more oblique implied insult to her, but then saw on the other woman’s face the avid, breathless anticipation. Lady Sharples was goading her, hoping to force some intemperate admission. She let the breath out slowly, then said with a smile, “How wise you are, my lady. It is exactly what I think of the gentleman. He is imperious to a fault and annoyingly arrogant. Handsome as the devil, as they say, but addicted to having his own way. He should indeed choose a fluff-brained girl.” Though he hadn’t. “What woman of spirit would ever have him, I ask you?”
After that, smiling to herself, Anne drifted from group to group, evading questions about her rumored romance with the mysterious Lord Darkefell—because of Lady Sharples the rumors were spreading like an untended fire—until she found Quin and Alfred Lonsdale sitting by the fire. She took the low chair by Quin’s knee, awkwardly batting down the fullness of her skirts, and viewed Lonsdale with alarm. He appeared ill, his face pale, perspiring, one trembling hand pressed over his stomach. Quin was speaking urgently to him, leaning forward in his chair.
“Anne, help me,” Quin said, reaching for her hand. “I am trying to convince Alf to seek medical advice. I offered my own physician, Dr. Fothergill—he is an esteemed and intelligent member of the Religious Society of Friends, a most estimable man and doctor—but he will have none of it.”
Anne squeezed Quin’s hand in a reassuring manner as she frowned and examined the young man. “Mr. Lonsdale, I would not say this in the normal course of events, but since I have been appealed to by my dear friend, I must agree; you do not look well.”
“I appreciate the concern. I am perfectly fine, Lady Anne. A touch of indigestion, a corner of cheese, a bit of undigested pudding, that is all.”
“I did not see you at the dinner table,” she recalled.
“I didn’t feel like supping with you all, and didn’t wish it to be obvious that I wasn’t eating.”
Anne was taken aback; this was odd. Quin seemed equally troubled by his friend’s words. “Are you sure it is indigestion?” Anne asked. “Are you typically plagued by such illness?” There was many a gentleman—and lady—who ate food too rich and drank far too much wine for their stomach. “What have you eaten today that could have led to it, if you didn’t eat supper with the company?”
“I lunched with a friend and had a little something at the Pump Room, where I was importuned by Mrs. Noakes and Mr. Doyne to join them in taking the waters, which he does for his health . . . apparently precarious and getting worse. Tedious conversation and even more tedious mineral water. That’s what it is, I’m sure. Who of our age suffers the sulphuric water besides you, dearest Quin?”
“I saw you earlier with a glass of wine that Lord Westmacott handed you, my dear fellow,” Quin said. “Has it taken to your stomach badly?”
“Surely a little wine could be good for this particular malady. He’s a dear old fellow, is he not? I’ve
known Westmacott forever.”
“He is an especial friend of my grandmother’s and my escort this evening. I know he has known you and your brother for many years too,” she said to Quin. “Quite one of the old school, don’t you agree, Mr. Lonsdale?”
“I suppose,” that gentleman said with a lift to one corner of his mouth. That half smile disappeared as another spasm had him holding his stomach again. Still, he kept his tone light as he said, “In some ways he is the very essence of the modern fellow.” He pressed on his gut.
Something passed between him and Quin, but Anne could not imagine what it was. “Mr. Lonsdale, are you, perhaps, still upset as you were on Sunday?” she murmured, leaning toward him. “You spoke then of . . . of a dilemma. A moral quandary you were in. Is that what is making you ill? I know when I am upset I sometimes suffer physical ailments, indigestion among them.”
He shook his head. “No, I have made my decision, and I plan to follow the moral path. I will do what is right, and hope those who love me understand my choices.”
Quin frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, looking concerned.
“I’m sure you’ll do what is best,” Anne said gently.
“Perhaps you should go have a rest, dear fellow,” Quin said. He motioned for a maid, who approached and curtseyed. “Could you show Mr. Lonsdale to the guest bedchamber, the one made up for him? He requires respite.”
“Quin, dear boy, you fuss too much,” Lonsdale said, but he looked relieved. There was a heartbeat thrumming in his temple, one vein standing out and pulsing irregularly.
Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic Page 11
