Charlotte Louise Dolan
Page 18
“But my dear madame,” Trussell said, sounding like a very bad actor on a provincial stage, “you and your daughter must stay here with us for a few days—er, weeks, that is. We would be delighted to have some company, would we not, Leatham?”
The invitation, coming as it did from someone who was himself technically a guest in the house, would have irritated Bronson no end, had not the humor of the situation tickled his fancy. Well, if Trussell were able to catch himself a rich widow, even if she were rather vulgar, then Bronson would not only be the first to wish him well, but he would do everything in his power to aid and abet him.
“To be sure, madame. Please feel free to extend your stay with us.”
The look Trussell now gave him was surprisingly hostile, but the widow was all amiability when she finally begged to be excused so that she might see about unpacking.
No sooner was the door closed behind her and her daughter than Trussell exploded. “How could you invite that woman to stay here!”
“How could I? Pray remember, the invitation was yours. I merely seconded it. But do not worry, my dear Trussell. I am sure the widow’s intentions are honorable. And may I be the first to wish you happy? Or has someone been before me?”
His breakfast companion looked as if he had been poleaxed. First his face turned puce, then stark white, and finally settled on an alarming shade of green. “She is not—that is to say, you have misinterpreted everything, Leatham. She is not interested in marrying me.”
“Oh? Then does she intend merely to—uh—toy with your affections, I believe it is called?” It was a good thing Miss Hemsworth was not present at breakfast this morning, else she would call him to order with as much speed and firmness as she did the twins. But in her absence Bronson could not resist the temptation to tease Trussell, who rose so beautifully to the bait.
“Not at all, she—oh, dash it all, Leatham, if you must know, the woman is after me to gain her entrée into society. That is her purpose in coming here—er, I mean, that is why she was so happy to run into me so, ah, accidently, as it were.”
Definitely, the woman had brought her own rock along with which to break the wheel. There was no longer the slightest doubt in Bronson’s mind. “Gain her entrée! When she is positively burnt to the socket with partying?”
“That is all a hum, and do not try to persuade me that you believed a word she said. I am not that gullible. The woman barely hangs onto the fringes of society, as you have already deduced. Yet she is bound and determined to marry that chit of hers off to a peer of the realm. I tell you, Leatham, man to man, for the first time in my life I am grateful that my cousin stands before me to inherit my grandfather’s tide, else that blasted woman would in truth have her eye on me as a prospective son-in-law.”
Bronson had not the slightest doubt that he had discovered the source of the money Trussell had been spending so wildly—but the price Trussell would be called on to pay was steeper than anything he would have been charged had he gone to a cent-per-cent.
Trussell looked at him now with a casual expression, behind which Bronson could see the naked calculation. “I have been thinking—if you have no objections, perhaps we could invite the Bainetons over for dinner this evening?” There was the merest whisper of desperation in the dandy’s voice.
“I seriously doubt that Thorverton would be interested in the chit. She is not at all his type,” Bronson replied calmly.
“No, no, I had no expectations along that line,” Trussell was quick to correct. “I was thinking that perhaps Lady Thorverton might—”
“Might take over the responsibility of introducing Mrs. Pierce-Smythe into society? Now you are indeed clutching at straws. Lady Thorverton has vast experience in depressing the pretensions of the mushroom class.”
“Oh, I say, Mrs. Pierce-Smythe is not precisely a mushroom. She is related to the Pierces of Lincolnshire—”
“You need go no further; I have already heard the lady’s pedigree recited in exquisite detail. For what it is worth, you may invite whomever you wish. Just be sure that you consult with the cook before you make plans to entertain in too grandiose a manner.”
To the litany of Trussell’s heartfelt thanks being repeated over and over again, Bronson wandered off in search of the twins and Miss Hemsworth. He was in a much more cheerful frame of mind than before breakfast.
Really, the next few days held promise of being vastly entertaining. Although Trussell would undoubtedly put up a fierce struggle, Bronson was willing to give odds that the widow would eventually lure the unfortunate dandy into parson’s mousetrap. That her interest in Trussell was limited solely to his connections in society Bronson did not believe for one moment.
In the meantime, Bronson could emulate the late Mr. Pierce-Smythe and take most of his meals on a tray in his room. Or better yet, he could join the twins in the schoolroom for meals. Coincidentally, that would mean he might be able to spend even more hours of the day in the company of the delightful Miss Hemsworth.
* * * *
Anne paced back and forth in the schoolroom. “Oh, how I wish I could be a fly on the wall this evening and hear what they will all be saying at dinner.”
Anthony looked at Andrew and Andrew looked right back. Something about their expressions made her instantly suspicious.
“All right, you two, what mischief are you plotting now?”
“We are not planning any actual mischief yet,” Andrew said slowly. He looked at his brother, and Anthony nodded. “But if you truly want to eavesdrop—”
“Which you did say you disapprove of—”
“We know how you can do it.”
Their eyes round, they looked at her, and she opened her mouth to say of course they must not any of them stoop so low as to eavesdrop—but she could not quite bring herself to utter the words.
“It might actually be a wise thing to do,” Andrew commented to his brother. Both of them were now rather obviously avoiding looking at Anne.
“It would not, strictly speaking, be eavesdropping,” Anthony added slowly.
“We should think of it as spying on the enemy,” Andrew said thoughtfully.
“Because Mrs. and Miss Pierce-Smythe may be relatives—”
“But they are not friends.”
“And we might actually need to know what they are planning to do.”
“They might, themselves, be planning some kind of mischief—”
“Or plotting some misdeeds of their own.”
“And forewarned is forearmed, as Aunt Sidonia would say.”
Anne heard the echo of her words coming out of the boys’ mouths. She knew she should say no ... knew she should be firm ... knew she should resist the temptation ...
But the day spent on the moor avoiding Dear Aunt Rosemary had seemed an eternity, made longer by the fact that all she had thought about with every breath she took was seeing Lord Leatham again ... talking to him again ...
All right, she said to the little voice in her head that was mocking her, I admit it. I want to kiss him again. But I cannot allow myself to indulge in such things, no matter how lenient an employer he says he is. Kissing one’s employer is, after all, conduct unbecoming a governess. And at the end of the summer, the boys will be packed off to Harrow, and Lord Leatham will vanish on another one of his journeys, and I ... I ...
She fought back the tears that were threatening to embarrass her.
Mrs. Wiggins will find me a suitable position as governess to some young lady who is all sweet compliance and no ingenuity at all, and I shall undoubtedly be driven to put a frog in her reticule.
Oh, I am not cut out to be a governess. Inside my prim and proper exterior, I am more a heathen than Skanadajiwah, who is really quite civilized. It is no wonder that Lord Leatham kisses me.
Turning her back on the twins, Anne walked to the window and stood looking out at the sunset. This was the evening she and the twins and Lord Leatham had planned to look at the stars again. If only her cousins’ unexpec
ted visit had not interfered!
“Just how do you propose we go about this spying?” she asked.
“Well, there is a secret passageway—”
“Which we discovered quite by accident.”
“We found a diagram that explained how to open the secret doors.”
“The chart was concealed in a hollowed-out book in the library.”
Egads, Anne thought, next it will be ghosts. She stifled a laugh and turned to face the boys. “I cannot approve of eavesdropping, even if you do call it by the fancy name of spying. But sometimes all of us are weaker than we wish to think we are, so lead on. I should like to make use of this secret tunnel—”
“Passageway,” Andrew corrected.
“And if you feel too guilty,” Anthony assured her, “tomorrow you can forgo eating any clotted cream with strawberries.”
“As punishment,” his brother added. “And we shall translate an extra five pages of Cicero.”
“That should be adequate,” Anne replied, wishing life were really so simple.
* * * *
An ill-assorted party was gathered in the rose salon before dinner. Trussell was seated between Mrs. Pierce-Smythe and Lady Thorverton, and from the frozen expression on the latter’s face, the dandy was having a rocky time of it.
Looking like a veritable moonling, Collier was ensconced on the settee beside young Miss Pierce-Smythe, who was batting her long eyelashes at him, simpering, and frequently rapping him playfully with her fan.
“My brother seems determined to make a cake of himself,” Thorverton remarked. “But then it is, I believe, his first case of calf-love. Were we ever that young?”
Bronson smiled. “When I was sixteen, I was totally smitten with Adler’s sister, who was nineteen. Her charms, if I remember correctly, consisted of the boxes of chocolates she sent him once a month, and which he shared willingly with anyone bigger than he was. You, I believe, were always more interested in your fillies and mares than in two-legged beauties. But then you had Diana.”
At the mention of his former betrothed, the other man looked uncommonly grim, and Bronson began to think his friend’s affections had been more deeply engaged than he had realized. “Are you sorry that...?”
Thorverton glanced at him in surprise. “Did I look as if I regretted it? Quite the contrary. Just for a moment there I had a horrific vision of what my life would be like right now if Hazelmore had not cut me out. The narrowness of my escape unmans me. Just thinking about it gives me the shakes.”
Chorley opened the doors to the dining room and announced in a stentorian voice that dinner was served.
“What is this, Leatham? Do you not allow Anne to join us for dinner? I had not thought you such a snob.”
“I could call you out for that, Thorverton, but my disappointment is as great as yours. No, Miss Hemsworth was invited, but she sent word that she has the headache and prefers to dine in her room. Which leaves you the odd man out, I am afraid. Unless you wish to compete with Trussell for the honor of escorting Mrs. Pierce-Smythe? You do outrank him, and if we are to stand on strict precedence—
With alacrity Thorverton declined the privilege, leaving Bronson to escort Lady Thorverton, Trussell to follow with Mrs. Pierce-Smythe, Collier Baineton with Miss Pierce-Smythe, and Thorverton to bring up the rear with no partner.
As the footmen began to serve the food and Mrs. Pierce-Smythe began again to recite her pedigree, this time apparently for Lady Thorverton’s benefit, Bronson’s thoughts turned to the empty place at the table where Miss Hemsworth should have been sitting. He did not believe for a moment her excuse that she had a sick headache.
No, after a day of trying to catch up with her, he had finally realized late in the afternoon that she was deliberately avoiding him. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, it was not hard to figure out why.
She was employed here as governess, and so far each of the two “gentlemen” in this household had gone beyond the bounds of what was allowable. To be sure, he himself had only kissed her ... repeatedly ... on two separate occasions ... and held her in his arms ... that was all.
Trussell, on the other hand, had attacked her in her bed chamber, but the difference between them was only a matter of degree. Where the dandy had been direct and had gone for the frontal assault, Bronson had been more subtle. He had lured Miss Hemsworth into the library, then had goaded her into his arms, then had—
Even now, the memory of the previous evening could not evoke in him the proper feelings of guilt and remorse. Just thinking about kissing her made him want to forget everything he had ever learned about the proper way for a gentleman to act—made him want to throw caution and restraint to the winds and go find Miss Hemsworth in her bedroom ... and kiss her again and again ....
Granted, from his perspective, it had been an enjoyable moment, but if he considered it from her point of view? Was she at this very moment, in spite of his threat to force her to remain through the entire summer, making preparations for her departure? Could he in all fairness expect her to remain when staying meant being perpetually obliged to fight off unwelcome advances?
It was obvious to him that she would not at this very moment be hiding in her room if he had not taken liberties with her in the library. It was a sobering thought.
* * * *
From her hiding place inside the wall, Anne could observe all the people gathered around the dining table, although regrettably, Lord Leatham had his back to her so she could not read the expression on his face.
It was a strange sensation to see and yet not be seen. Almost like watching a play on stage, but in essence vastly different. To begin with, in the theater actors and actresses know they are being observed, they have memorized their lines, and they are deliberately playing roles.
But the longer Anne watched and listened, the more she realized that here, too, lines were being recited by rote and the roles that were being acted out owed all to artifice and nothing to nature. Whoever the playwright had been, however, he was not on a par with Shakespeare. Lady Thorverton was but a caricature of the snobbish, society matron, Collier was ridiculous as the lovesick youth, Trussell was overdone as the foppish dandy, and her cousins...
Age had not been kind to Dear Aunt Rosemary. Too much of her character could now be read on her face—the selfishness, the pettiness, the narrow-mindedness, the greed, the conceit.
And Cousin Rosabelle, poor little thing, had been well trained not to have a thought in her head or a care in the world beyond what her mirror might show her. True, she was beautiful to look at, but she had no more personality and wit than a Brussels sprout.
Looking at her younger cousin, Anne felt no stirrings of affection, only a deep revulsion. Just so would she have been, had she not had the good fortune to come under the influence of Great-Aunt Sidonia. If nothing else was given to her in her life, Anne must still be grateful for having received such a blessing.
* * * *
“And have I mentioned, my lord, that the Countess of Faussley, my dear cousin, lived with us many years after the demise of her dear husband?”
Bronson, who had not been paying any especial note to the empty prattle of the female seated beside him, now suddenly found himself all rapt attention. Mrs. Pierce-Smythe was related to the Countess of Faussley? But that would mean...
“Yes, we took her in, Mr. Pierce-Smythe and I, when she and her daughter had no place else to go, poor things.”
Poor things? Bronson raised his napkin to his face and tried with indifferent success to turn his laugh into a cough. This ridiculous woman was categorizing Miss Hemsworth as a “poor thing”?
By Jove, the implication of what she was saying fully struck him. This, then, must be why Anne—that is to say, Miss Hemsworth—had been playing least-in-sight all day. It was not because of the kisses he had bestowed on her. “Tell me more, my dear Mrs. Pierce-Smythe, about your cousins.”
“Dear Lady Gloriana,” she began, “such a sweet child she was.”
For a moment he toyed with the absurd idea that the twins might have sneaked into the room and secreted themselves, but that was clearly impossible. There were no draperies or pieces of furniture large enough to provide them the means of concealing themselves.
More than likely it was just rats in the wainscoting. He would speak to Chorley tomorrow about securing the services of a ferret or two.
“Dear Rosabelle and I were so attached to Lady Gloriana. It was positively wrenching when her great-aunt, Lady Sidonia, insisted upon dragging her away from us.”
This time it was definitely a snicker behind him, and a very recognizable snicker, too, although whether it was Andrew or Anthony he could not have said. Belatedly, it occurred to him that the twins must have been more successful than he and his cousin had been. As boys, the two of them had spent many a rainy afternoon searching for the secret passages said to have been built in Wylington Manor during Cromwell’s time.
The question that remained in his mind was, if the twins were now hiding in a concealed passageway, was Anne lying down in her room or was she also there a few feet behind him watching and listening? Could she have been so tempted to deviate from the strait and narrow path that she would deliberately eavesdrop?
Remembering the way she had thrown propriety to the wind and responded to his kisses, he rather suspected that there were three spies crowded into what must be a very narrow passageway indeed.
* * * *
Lord Leatham did not appear to have heard them. Anne slowly let out the breath she had been holding, and beside her Anthony squeezed her hand in reassurance.
Really, this business of spying was trickier than she had thought. And so far they had learned nothing that was of the slightest benefit. It would be better by far if they abandoned their listening posts and retired to their own rooms, but if they so much as moved an inch, the sound of their footsteps would undoubtedly betray them.