The Elusive Miss Ellison

by Carolyn Miller

  “Oh. Lord Danver seems very nice. He asked about Gloucestershire and what we did there.”

  “Yes, I saw the two of you having a nice coze. Danver has always had a soft spot for the common man, but then, he is a Whig.”

  “How do you know these people, Aunt Patience?”

  A soft light filled her aunt’s eyes, but she waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve known them for years. You will find there are some people in London who care more about a person’s mind than their family name. Now tomorrow night, I plan to take you to another evening where you will meet others who value conversation over cards.”

  “That is, if I survive tomorrow morning.”

  Aunt Patience patted her shoulder. “You will do more than survive; you shall overcome.”

  Her aunt bid her good night, and Lavinia snuggled under the thick blankets, her mind still whirring with all she had seen and heard in the past days. So many fascinating people, so many wonderful sights. Only two things served to mar her enjoyment: concern that Papa was well and not lonely, and Aunt Constance’s insistence Lavinia learn to ride. This second concern had eventuated the day of the mantua-maker’s visit. Aunt Constance’s gift of clothes—for the years she had done nothing for poor Grace’s child, so she said—had become such an extravagance, Lavinia had finally worked up courage to protest: “But I am only here for a few weeks. Surely I will not need ball gowns.”

  “A few weeks! Nonsense, my dear. We cannot lose you when we are just making your acquaintance.”

  “But I must return for Christmas. Papa needs me.”

  Aunt Constance’s face tightened before she smiled. “Well, we shall make do with only three ball gowns, then.” Her gaze grew sharp. “You do dance, don’t you, Lavinia?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Dancing lessons with Charlotte tomorrow, then.”

  “I had hoped to visit the library tomorrow, Aunt Constance.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “The library will still be there the next day; Mr. Finetti may not.” One glance at cousin Charlotte’s face suggested Aunt Constance would not be easily swayed.

  But when Aunt Constance murmured something to the dressmaker about riding clothes, she simply had to assert herself. “Aunt, truly I am thankful, but I do not require riding clothes.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I do not ride, ma’am.”

  Her aunt and cousin gaped at her in astonishment. “You live in the country and don’t ride?”

  She swallowed. “I do not like horses.”

  Her aunt’s frown gave way to sympathy. “Grace’s accident. You were there, weren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Aunt Patience never insisted I learn.”

  “Well, she always preferred her books and music. And I suppose your father would not be able to afford to keep stables, so learning to ride may have been a little precipitate.”

  Her chest heated at her aunt’s condescension.

  “No matter. Charlotte has a placid pony that will do. You may have riding lessons on Thursday morning before breakfast.”

  Torn between horror and amusement at her aunt’s autocratic “permission,” Lavinia had kept her mouth closed—and decided to pray for Thursday morning rain.

  She rolled onto her other side and pulled the sheet up to her chin as unease about tomorrow’s activity intensified with recognition of a third cause for disquiet. The lingering concern that she might see the earl—a very real possibility given Parliament was in session, as her uncle’s presence here in London attested—and that if she did, he might suspect she harbored feelings for him. Which was most definitely not true.

  At all.

  Nicholas glanced across the half-empty chambers as the Home Secretary rambled on and on. He stifled a yawn and caught the amused gaze of the honorable member seated directly opposite. He offered a half smile and tried to concentrate on the bill being proposed, but the words only swam as the elderly statesman droned on.

  He rubbed the bruise he’d gained at Jackson’s Saloon this morning, certain to well into gray loveliness and earn the ire of Miss DeLancey when he saw her next. His chest grew tight. Perhaps the only benefit of such lengthy, life-sapping debates was the fact it cut short the time he must spend with the Winpooles. Brave man he was, needing excuses to avoid them. But lately, Clara’s company felt almost smothering, the smugness her family showed at his and Clara’s eventual union like a noose around his neck.

  He clenched his hands. Unclenched. His mother was right; he had to marry someone suitable from his station in life. He supposed Clara would do, even if fulfilling his duty to his rank felt like he was condemning himself to something rather less than what he’d dared imagine.

  Early morning rides lifted his spirits only a little. He would much prefer to be away, but Parliament demanded attendance until Christmas, which meant staying, listening, learning. Fulfilling his duties.

  Banning’s letter this morning informed that the final tenant house had been completed, just in time for the first early snowfall. That was something. Perhaps his time in St. Hampton Heath hadn’t been a complete waste.

  If only …

  Queasiness rippled across his stomach, just as it did every time he thought about that last day. He was such a fool. Thornton had been right to reprimand him—he saw that now. If he ever did see Lavinia again, he’d be at a loss as to what to say. He’d apologized too many times. She wouldn’t believe any more.

  He rubbed his forehead. Perhaps the bump sustained this morning had conjured the ridiculous vision he’d had this afternoon on the way to the House of Lords. Coming along the Strand, he’d spied a slight figure outside the circulating library. For a moment, he was sure it was Miss Ellison, her profile and hair color so similar. He’d jerked his phaeton to a stop, but her modish dress and the unfamiliar young man escorting her laid evidence to the contrary.

  He breathed slowly, forced his heightened heartbeat to slow. He was a fool. There was no other word for it. Wanting the impossible, knowing dreams were but illusions.

  The session continued for another half hour before finally closing for the evening, unresolved—hardly surprising as so many were absent. He stumbled to his feet and blinked against the brighter light outside chambers. He nodded to the other peers rushing to the exit.

  “Lord Hawkesbury.”

  Nicholas turned to the older man. “Lord Danver.”

  “Well, that was a waste of an evening.”

  “It was a little dry.”

  “Dry is a trifle generous.” Danver gave a genial smile. “Going to White’s? Care to travel with me?”

  “I thought you were a member of Brook’s.”

  “Ah, yes, that is so, but I am one of the Whigs you Tories are prepared to tolerate in your hallowed halls.”

  A short time later they were seated in the private dining room, eating grouse and smoked eel, as a parade of notables passed around them. Conversation touched on London, laws, France.

  “I must say I have been rather impressed to see a man of action endure such tedious debate for so many days.”

  Nicholas offered a half shrug. “It’s our duty, is it not?”

  “Duty doesn’t seem to motivate many others to attend. Nor, if I may be so bold, did it seem to inspire your father or brother.”

  “I have learned many things this past year about the obligations my position demands.”

  “Interesting you should say that. I heard something quite similar just the other day at Beaumont’s. A most eloquent speaker, with a remarkably well-informed mind.” His gaze sharpened. “You have a place in Gloucestershire, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I found her quite enchanting. One of the Westerbrookes, you know. If I were a younger man …”

  Nicholas blinked. Danver must be fifty if he was a day.

  “You must come with me, Hawkesbury. There is a little evening at Holland’s tomorrow night. Should be very interesting.” He smiled slyly. “I promise it won’t be too Whiggish f
or you.”

  The Duke of Argyll stopped to chat with Danver, leaving Nicholas to concentrate on his meal. He had just finished the last morsel when the duke nodded farewell. He looked up to see the Honorable Richard DeLancey enter the room. His stomach clenched.

  “There!” Lord Danver’s dark eyes flashed. “I’ve seen you wear that face many a day now, sitting opposite in the chamber. If I may be so bold, you seem somewhat troubled, Hawkesbury.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but it is nothing.”

  DeLancey laughed loudly. Nicholas fought a contemptuous curl of the lip.

  Danver twisted in his seat. “I gather that young man is the brother of your young lady.”

  “She’s not my young lady.”

  “No? Whispers have reached even my ancient ears about a possible alliance.”

  Nicholas grimaced and toyed with his water glass.

  “Duty need not extend that far, Hawkesbury.”

  Cold despair pushed truth out. “I have an obligation to my family name.”

  “And a responsibility to your heavenly Father. Have you sought His will?”

  He blinked. “How did—?”

  “People change when God touches their hearts. I have seen you at services these past weeks. Your attentiveness and worship do not appear mere outward show.” Danver smiled gently. “Might I suggest prayer is preferable to worry? Our Father has good plans for you, not plans you will despise.”

  For a moment, hope glimmered like a faraway star. Everything within Nicholas wanted to believe, but how could God disentangle this mess? Swift’s Gulliver could not possibly feel more bound.

  Lord, would You give me some direction?

  “Hawkesbury!” Candlelight glinted off Richard DeLancey’s ostentatious ruby ring as he drew closer, his too-quick smile ingratiating as always. “Will you be coming to Mama’s evening tomorrow?”

  Nicholas glanced at Danver. Surely an evening at Dr. Holland’s had to be more interesting than another insipid affair with the Winpooles. He turned to the younger man and forced a smile. “I regret I have other plans.”

  Richard’s stare grew hard. “Clara will not be best pleased.”

  He refused to catch Danver’s gaze as he said, “I will visit the following afternoon.”

  And the noose tightened a little more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  LAVINIA GRIPPED THE reins so tightly her fingers ached. Perched precariously, her legs to one side, she felt frighteningly inept and much, much too high. She inhaled deeply, but her new riding dress was not designed for such things. Modish she might appear, but her bodice was too tight, the stays digging into her, unlike the loose, practical dresses Aunt Patience had always insisted she wear.

  “Miss Ellison! Keep up, please.”

  She sighed, swallowed the fear, and gently nudged Charlotte’s pony, which seemed ecstatic at such encouragement and immediately began to trot.

  “Stop, Shadow!” She tugged the reins to no avail. Panic rushed up her throat. “Stop!”

  The gray pony ignored her pleas, maintaining the pace that made her bobble wildly on its back. What were her instructions? How was she to hold the pommel? Why must she do this? “Please, Shadow!”

  “Lavinia, calm down.” Charlotte moved alongside on her dappled mare. “Horses can sense our fear.”

  “I gather ponies do, too?” Shadow slowed, much to her relief—and the riding instructor’s disgust.

  “Miss Ellison, how many times must I remind you that horses are designed for speed? If you want to learn to ride, you must be prepared to go faster than a walk!”

  “But I do not want to learn,” she murmured.

  Mr. Horrocks rolled his eyes heavenward.

  Charlotte giggled. “Do not let Mama hear you say such things. She will have a fit.”

  “You may be sure I will not.”

  It was certainly pointless to argue with a woman who either acquired deafness or threatened a spasm whenever her decrees were questioned.

  They stopped near a large elm as a rider on a large dark horse raced some distance away, along Rotten Row. The gentleman leaned forward, coat flying, devil-may-care attitude evident as he propelled toward a thick hedge. Her breath caught. Would he make it? The horse jumped, sailing high, strong, over the hedge to safety, before the rider patted its neck and they continued their breakneck speed. She exhaled. Despite her aversion to horses, that was beautiful to see.

  “Now that is fine riding,” Charlotte said.

  Lavinia nodded. Given its head, the horse rode like black wind.

  Mr. Horrocks muttered, “Fools like that should be locked up!”

  “There is hardly anyone about at this time. The only danger is to himself.”

  “Miss Ellison, that does not provide license for any silly individual to recklessly race around the park on an out-of-control animal.”

  “He looked like he had his horse under control and knew exactly what he was doing.”

  Merely trying to escape the rigid strictures and straits of polite society through excess, though futile, speed. And for that, the man had her full sympathy.

  A half hour later, they had returned to the park gates. There was a little more traffic now, grooms exercising horses, an occasional curricle trundling along the carriageway, a few other young ladies with their riding instructors.

  Her stomach grumbled in an unladylike fashion. She smiled at Charlotte’s giggle as they waited for a hackney to pass. The time outside among trees and grass provided respite from the usual foul, smoky air, but her body ached, her legs were tired, and her fingers felt numb from holding the reins. The sooner they were home—and had breakfast—the better.

  “I believe—yes, I am sure it’s her.”

  “Who do you mean, Charlotte?” She followed her cousin’s gaze to where two smartly dressed riders trotted toward them.

  Charlotte whispered, “It’s Miss DeLancey and her brother. They are ever so elegant, are they not?”

  Her chest tightened. She resisted the impulse to check that her clothing and hair were still presentable as the riders drew alongside.

  Clara DeLancey’s haughty expression neatly matched her brother’s as they managed cool nods before her eyes widened and she stopped. “Miss Ellison?”

  “Good morning, Miss DeLancey.”

  “I did not expect to see you here.” Her gaze traveled over Lavinia’s riding attire. A small frown appeared. “I did not think you rode.”

  Lavinia summoned a smile and motioned to her cousin, whose excitement was palpable. “Miss DeLancey, may I present my cousin, Lady Charlotte Featherington.”

  Clara’s eyes narrowed as Charlotte murmured a greeting. She tilted her head to the man beside her. “My brother, Richard.”

  His blue stare bored into Lavinia, making her feel most uncomfortable. She nodded and then turned to Clara. “I trust you will enjoy your ride.”

  “Oh, I always do.” She glanced around before her attention settled back on Lavinia, her smile not reflected in her eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Hawkesbury anywhere?”

  Her breath caught. He was here?

  “He arranged to meet us here this morning.” An affected laugh escaped even as the green eyes hardened. “You are not here still trying to chase him, are you, Miss Ellison?”

  Lavinia’s chin lifted. “I can assure you, Miss DeLancey, that I have never chased him, nor am I the one trying to do so now. Good day.”

  She ignored Clara’s gasp and turned Shadow away—and desperately tried to recall how to not bounce as usual. Charlotte’s mount soon caught up.

  “I feel sorry for him,” Charlotte muttered.

  “For whom? The brother whose sneer prevented him from uttering a word?”

  Charlotte laughed. “No, Lord Hawkesbury, of course! They say he’s as good as engaged to her.”

  Engaged?

  Charlotte chattered on, but Lavinia paid no heed. The ice in her fingers was spreading rapidly through her soul. She was a fool. An ex
ceedingly stupid fool. As they turned into the mews, she tried to recall Nicholas’s many faults and crimes, but they suddenly seemed insignificant, replaced by memories of his kindness, his warm wit, his great fortitude at her capricious ways. How could he marry Clara?

  Her vision blurred, and she stumbled from the stables, not to breakfast, but to hide her woe in her room.

  The coach wheels clattered over cobblestones as they drove to Holland’s evening party. Danver leaned forward from his seat opposite. “There is no need to look so worried. As I promised, tonight shall not be too Whiggish.”

  “I am sure tonight will be unexceptionable.”

  “Ah, now that I cannot guarantee.”

  Nicholas mustered a laugh before glancing outside at the streets, whose darkness matched his mood. He’d been sorely tempted to cancel tonight, before realizing a night of wit and ideas might be the best diversion from wallowing in the realization he was nearly affianced to a woman with none.

  After a hard ride early this morning, his good spirits had come crashing down upon discovery of Clara and her brother. He supposed Richard must have informed his sister of Nicholas’s whereabouts—he certainly had no desire to share the high point of his day with her and had never publicized his morning activities.

  After her initial delight, Clara had grown oddly quiet. When he had finally succumbed and asked her what was the matter, she’d refused to answer. Why she insisted on playing silly games and not answering in a forthright manner was beyond him, but apparently some ladies had not the benefit of a Miss West in their education.

  His fingers clenched. What had that fool Richard said? He wracked his brains, trying to remember. Nicholas had expressed surprise at seeing them both, Clara had gone beet red, and Richard had said something along the lines that his sister need not chase men—unlike some. The significant look that passed between the two had filled him with unease.

  “I’m afraid I do not take your meaning, DeLancey.”

  “Some young ladies are not what they seem, sir, acting like an innocent country miss when really they have designs on a gentleman.”