“Miss Ellison, is something the matter?”
“Oh! I’m sorry for not attending. I beg your pardon.”
“Are you concerned about the beggar woman from earlier? I am sure she will be well looked after at the mission.”
“I hope so. Thank you so much for agreeing to take her there. I know it wasn’t what you expected today.”
He smiled. Driving an elderly woman to the Brent Street Women’s Home certainly had not been on his agenda, but Lavinia’s pleading look had made his answer easy. “It was my pleasure.”
“Your pleasure? Why sir, I am surprised at what you find pleasurable.”
“Someone once told me how blessed it is to give rather than receive.” He glanced across. “I don’t know if I ever thanked you.”
“For badgering you to help today?”
“You didn’t badger. She needed help, and we could assist.”
We. He smiled. How good it felt to say aloud.
“I am thankful you cared enough to help.”
“And I am thankful you have taught me to care.”
Her cheeks tinged pink. She looked down.
“Miss Ellison? You seem troubled. You are not anxious about DeLancey? I assure you, if he sets a foot within one hundred yards of you, I will deal with him. I will protect you.”
“That’s very kind of you, but how exactly do you propose to protect me?”
Hopes and dreams stirred within. He opened his mouth to share his heart—
“Oh, look! There is Mr. Chetwynd.”
He slowed the horses at the implied request, taking courage at her smile of appreciation, even as he wished the young poet a thousand miles away. He managed to say all that was polite, to offer trivial remarks about the weather, even as he watched Lavinia, animated for the first time that day. She bent down to murmur in the younger man’s ear.
His stomach twisted. Was he mistaken? Did she prefer the poet after all?
Soon Mr. Chetwynd made his excuses, freeing Nicholas to snap the reins. Now Lavinia would attend to him.
“Oh, I fear I have something of a headache.” She rubbed her forehead.
He swallowed his disappointment. “I can take you back, if you like.”
She shook her head. “I cannot go back just yet.”
“Cannot?” He frowned. “Is there a problem?”
“No.” She studied her muff.
“Miss Ellison”—he dropped his voice—“Lavinia, you can trust me.”
She nodded stiffly.
“Have you committed your worries to God?”
“You are good to remind me.” She bit her lip.
“You are in my prayers.” He heard the catch of breath, saw a shimmer of tears blinked away. “And it would be my honor to assist in alleviating any trouble.”
“Alleviating?” She laughed suddenly. “We don’t need to alleviate a marriage.”
A marriage? Jealousy surged across his chest. “If you refer to Thornton and Miss Milton—”
“No, I am very happy for them. No, I refer to my aunt and Lord Danver.”
“What?” His grip loosened on the reins so the horses began to bolt. Amidst a scramble to steady them, he heard her smothered giggle and murmured “the great Hawkesbury.”
He fought a smile, snapped the reins, and soon the horses were behaving again. “Your aunt and Danver? You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
Oaks blurred past as his thoughts whirled, settled. “But that is good news, is it not? They have known each other an age, and share faith and similar interests. Surely friendship must be integral for a marriage to succeed.”
“I suppose.” She turned to face the barren trees. “If one intends to marry.”
He almost lost his grip on the reins again. Did Lavinia’s bluestocking tendencies extend so far as to avoid marriage? He swallowed the fear thickening his throat. “Do you not intend to marry?”
She pulled her muff higher. “One cannot simply intend it to happen. There must be suitors, not just dance partners carried away in the rush of emotion who desire money or a title more than a good mind. And I hardly have a long line of genuine suitors before me.”
His voice was low. “You only need one.”
The color on her cheeks rose. He longed to take her in his arms again, to hold her, to learn if her lips were as soft as they appeared. He had barely been able to sleep remembering the other night: her sweet scent, the way her form nestled into his sparked heat inside, the vulnerability in her eyes that ignited protection deep within. Everything seemed to cry: She is mine. Mine! Possessiveness made him fierce, made him foolish, made his heart fragile. If she didn’t share his feelings …
She sighed. “It is just so difficult to see things clearly in London. There is so much artificiality here. One never knows who is being honest and true.”
“I will always be honest with you.”
“Yes, I suppose you are.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “Even when you’re cross with me, I know you’re being honest.”
“And when I say I think you’re beautiful, you can trust I’m being honest, too.”
Her smile flashed. “Yes, well, you might be nonsensical and prone to fits of exaggeration, but I don’t think you’ve ever lied.” The light in her face faded. “You would be one of the few.”
He frowned.
“No, things are never as simple as they are in the country.” She appeared to tremble.
“Are you cold? Do you wish to go home?”
“Home?” she replied absently. “Yes, I suppose Papa will need to know.”
A small groove appeared in her brow.
And worry furrowed his heart.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Nicholas arrived at Twenty Grosvenor Square to discover the house in an uproar. His request to speak with Miss Ellison was met by the butler’s wringing hands.
“Oh, Lord Hawkesbury! I’m so sorry, but the young lady seems to have disappeared!”
“Disappeared? Surely you are mistaken—”
“No, sir, there’s no mistake. She hasn’t been seen since this morning. Not since that fellow’s visit.”
Fear trampled his heart; he tamped it down. “What fellow?” Surely DeLancey would not dare—
“The poet fellow.”
“Chetwynd?” No. The doubts surged again. “Where is Lady Exeter? I must speak with her immediately!”
He was escorted to an upstairs parlor where Lavinia’s aunt was sprawled on a settee. Charlotte sat near her, holding a small vinaigrette and a worried expression.
“Hawkesbury! Where is my niece?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but—”
“You mean you don’t know?” The marchioness sat hurriedly, her eyes wide. “You’ve spent so much time together, and she seems to like you more than anyone. I thought she had run off with you!”
Dread filled his stomach. “She has run off?”
“Yes! Charlotte says some of her clothes are missing, although”—she frowned—“none of the ones I bought her. Oh, the ingratitude!”
“Your butler thinks Chetwynd—”
“That milksop?”
“She did not leave with him,” Charlotte murmured.
Relief coursed through him, chased by concern. “How do you know?”
“My bedchamber overlooks the street. I was surprised to hear an early morning visitor, but he left after only ten minutes or so. Alone,” she added, with a decided nod.
“But what was he doing here so early? He must know something!” Lady Exeter lifted a delicate hand to her head. “Oh, to have had such an ingrate living under my roof. The scandal! Just imagine the scandal when this comes out!”
“Let’s not,” Nicholas muttered. “What has been done to find her? Lord Exeter—?”
“He left early this morning to go to Parliament—but wait, you are not. Oh, I don’t know where he could be, either! Oh, everyone is running away!”
Nicholas smiled grimly. The marquess likely was in the private gaming loun
ge at White’s.
“Sir,” Charlotte said softly, “Henry has asked all the staff. Nobody recalls seeing her. He has gone to check the circulating library.”
“She did not leave a note?”
“A note?” Lady Exeter blinked. “Charlotte, Hawkesbury, run and see.” She collapsed again on the settee. “Oh, my poor nerves. Why did she do this to me?”
He restrained a sigh of disgust and followed Charlotte to the bedchamber. The room was neat, a small wooden box on the dresser the only item gaining attention. He slid the lid open and stared at the pearl and diamond necklace.
“I think Mother doesn’t know whether to be upset or relieved Livvie didn’t take that.”
“She said nothing to you?”
She shook her head. “She did seem rather quiet after the ball. I even thought she might be unhappy perhaps.”
After Lavinia’s experiences, he imagined she had much to concern her. He paced the carpet. She would know to avoid DeLancey, but what if he had threatened her? But then, how would she have managed to collect her clothes? She must have planned this to some degree. Hurt burned his heart. Why had she turned to Chetwynd? Why hadn’t she trusted him?
“Now I think about it, she was rather pensive last night. She gave me and Mama rather big hugs, almost like—”
“She was saying goodbye.” His heart thudded as memories arose of the girl who hugged her friends, coupled with sweet desire. If only she thought of him so …
A scream brought them running back to the parlor.
“That girl!” Lady Exeter held a note. “That stupid, stupid girl!”
“Mother!”
“Betsy has just cleaned the downstairs parlor and found this on the mantelpiece!”
He snatched it, ignoring her protest, and read it hurriedly. “She says she must leave London and is going to see family.” He frowned. “You think she’s returned to Gloucestershire?”
“I expect so.” She moaned. “Oh, this is perfectly dreadful! I should never have told her!”
“Told her what? She was concerned about something yesterday. What did you say?”
“I told her about her inheritance.”
“What inheritance?”
She stared at him hard. “Oh, I suppose it does not matter anymore. We kept it quiet, just in the family, but I do not recall if I told her that. She is to receive her mother’s share of the Westerbrooke estate. She is worth forty thousand pounds.”
“What?”
“She will be surrounded by fortune hunters, and with such limited experience with men, I’m afraid she will be taken in by the first who professes his admiration.”
Nausea slid through his stomach. Is that what Lavinia thought of him? That he wanted her for her inheritance?
Lady Exeter prattled on. “Of course, she is rather more like Patience than we expected. Independent to a fault! Perhaps with such wealth she may decide never to marry.”
His throat grew thick. The carriage ride yesterday, her melancholy. “Did she say that?”
“Oh, words to that effect.” She wrung her hands. “Sir, I know we have not always agreed, but I know she has counted you something of a friend.”
Only something of a friend? Despair swam beneath anxiety as the marchioness continued.
“She said that it was nice to know someone who wasn’t trying to dazzle her with elegance or frippery, who knew her before all this.” She waved a hand. “Heaven knows she’ll need all the friends she can find when this comes out!”
“You cannot say anything to anyone. I will find her, and bring her to safety, but there will be no need for scandal.”
“No need—? But girls do not simply disappear. She will be ruined!”
“Not if she agrees to marry me.”
“Marry you! But the duchess—”
“Has nothing to do with anything, I assure you.”
After gaining her wide-eyed assurance that she would keep Lavinia’s hasty departure a secret as long as possible, and positive he would get nothing more from the inhabitants, he made his exit, only to encounter Henry’s return from the library, with the news Lavinia was not there, either.
He rode away, thoughts churning about all he would need to do before traveling to St. Hampton Heath, even as his heart twisted between hope he would soon find the elusive Lavinia and beg her to become his, and gnawing despair that bade him to crawl away and hide, and lick his wounds like a dog.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
LAVINIA STOOD ALONE on the stone steps. A cool breeze shivered from the oak grove and rippled across the large lake, dampening her courage. Two gray gargoyles scowled from lichen-smudged plinths atop the stairs. She beat the heavy brass knocker again. Surely someone had to be home?
Movement inside, a scrabbling of keys and locks led to the door being opened by a liveried servant. “Yes?”
“I have need to speak with Her Grace.”
The footman looked down his nose. “Her Grace is not to be disturbed.”
She lifted her chin. “I believe she will want to speak with me.”
“And whom shall I say has come to call?”
“Her granddaughter.”
His eyes enlarged ever so slightly. After a moment, he pulled the door wider and gestured to a room on the right. As he brought in her bags, she caught a glimpse of an ornate hall with high chandeliers and a huge staircase that put even Aunt Constance’s London house in the shade.
She entered a small reception room whose neat elegance was marred by enormous paintings of ancestors, frowning down in an intimidating manner. Lavinia settled herself on a small couch, removed her bonnet, and smoothed her tan traveling gloves. She might have spent all her pin money traveling many hours by mail coach to Salisbury and then hiring a gig to get here, but the grandeur of Salisbury House suggested she not look that way.
As the minutes dragged by, her bravado began to falter. Yes, she was now inside, but she couldn’t very well go running through the house searching for her grandmother; her willingness to break with propriety had some limits. Regret twisted her heart. Perhaps she should have accepted Mr. Chetwynd’s escort, after all. He’d been horrified by her request, insisting it would be most improper for him to assist her in procuring a seat on such transport, but she’d overborne him with her declarations that she’d travelled via such means before and that she would leave anyway, regardless of whether he helped or not. So after their brief discussion yesterday in her aunt’s drawing room, she’d placed her note, collected her bags, and snuck out the back through the mews, something like shame hurrying her steps to where he’d been waiting.
She lifted her chin, pushing down her remorse. Yes, she should have said goodbye properly, but her aunt would have created such a fuss, and she had to get out of London. Had to. The snobbery and pretension stifled one so. And as for the ever-whirling questions over the earl and his intentions …
Her heart panged. She forced her attention back to her present challenges. What would she do if the duchess refused to see her? How would she get home to Papa?
A neat middle-aged woman appeared. “Miss, Her Grace is not receiving visitors.”
Lavinia rose. “But I am her granddaughter. I have come a long way to see her!”
“Her Grace does not see anyone without prior arrangement.”
“But—”
“If you’ll be pleased to leave.” She gestured to the door.
“I’m sorry, but that does not please me at all.” Lavinia reseated herself. “You may tell Her Grace that Grace’s daughter has come to see her and will not leave until she does.”
Her eyes widened. “Grace’s daughter?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “So if you’ll please inform her.”
A few minutes later she returned and gestured for Lavinia to follow her. Lavinia moved back into the hall, caught more than one footman’s look of shock as she passed, then followed the woman into a great reception room papered in carmine and crowded with dark furniture.
Anticipati
on drummed through her as she moved toward the fireplace. An elderly lady dressed in a pale violet gown frowned at her approach.
Doubts assailed her as she stood. Was she right in coming? Would this woman listen?
The Duchess of Salisbury shifted back on the brocade seat and lifted her glass to stare.
Lavinia stared back, catching the glimpse of surprise before her eyes were hooded again.
“Are you the person claiming to be my granddaughter?”
“I am Lavinia Ellison, Grace’s daughter.”
“Grace …” The name was whispered almost reverently, before she blinked, reverting to her previous impervious manner. “You hold a passing resemblance, I admit, but many claim to be what they are not.”
Lavinia’s spirits sank. How sad this woman held no trust. “You are correct, Your Grace. Many claim, but some of us are who we say.” She pulled the cross from the folds of a lacy scarf.
“Grace’s cross!” The eyes sparked before coolness settled again. “And what do you wish with me?”
Lavinia swallowed, sinking into the seat to which her grandmother pointed. Apparently there would be no happy reunions here. “Until quite recently, I was unaware of the existence of any relations on my mother’s side other than Aunt Patience.”
“Patience?” Her grandmother’s frown deepened. “Such a foolish girl! Coming here, expecting me to bless her union with that Danver fellow? Pah!”
“She was here?”
“Not for long, I assure you.”
Lavinia bit her tongue to prevent her reply.
“You say Patience did not tell you? I don’t suppose that scoundrel, your father”—she almost spat the word—“did, either?”
“They did not. They were of the impression you wanted nothing to do with them or me.”
“So how … ?”
“Aunt Constance.”
“Of course. She was always one to prattle on.” Her grandmother sighed. “What is it you want? I suppose you want me to apologize for cutting off your mother.”
Lavinia tilted her head. “Do you feel like you need to apologize?”
“Such impertinence! I never apologize.”
The Elusive Miss Ellison Page 29
