“I do wish that Cousin Caro would talk to Mama; maybe she could convince Mama it is all right for us to have ponies,” Cedric’s voice broke into the marquess’s thoughts.
“Do you not ride then?” Nicholas was incredulous.
“She thinks that we are too young. We might hurt ourselves,” Clarence explained. “Mama is extremely solicitous of our welfare because she says that now we are all she has left,” he defended his parent, but there was an undercurrent of weariness in his voice that left the marquess with the impression that this last was an oft repeated phrase trotted out when there was any difference of opinion between the countess and her sons.
“Oh, I see. Well, yes, that explains it,” Nicholas replied, though, having been hoisted on his first pony at the tender age of two and never having suffered any ill effects, he most certainly did not see. And where was the boys’ uncle in all this? Surely the horse-mad Tony Mandeville could not be aware of the true state of affairs as he would never have allowed it to continue for so long. Then, considering more carefully Anthony’s carefree bachelor existence and Lavinia’s frequent complaints about her brother’s ramshackle ways, Nicholas could understand Tony’s playing least-insight around Grosvenor Square. He sighed. It was a great pity though, and something should be done about it.
“Now that Cousin Caro is here,” Ceddie began confidently, “and she knows how much we want ponies, she’ll convince Mama to let us have them. After all, she made her allow us to have Argos here and he has been no trouble. Well,” he amended carefully, “almost no trouble. Luckily Cousin Caro found the tassels he chewed off the draperies in the morning room and gave them to Susan to sew on before Mama noticed.”
“Argos?” Nicholas surveyed the dog with new appreciation. He remembered Lavinia’s aversion to his own beloved spaniel. Prince, all too well.
“Yes. Cousin Caro says he’s a rare Transylvanian Long Hair.’’ Clarence rose quickly to the defense of their new companion. “Cousin Caro also says that her friend Princess Esterhazy is most desperate to acquire one and that Argos’s owner must be quite frantic at his loss so Mama said we must keep him until the owner can be found.” Observing the gleam of amusement in the marquess’s blue eyes, he hesitated, “Is there such a thing as a Transylvanian Long Hair, sir?”
“Of course n . . .” Nicholas paused, unwilling to ruin such a piece of strategy and one so kindly meant. “Of course. I don’t know whether it is a hound or a terrier, but I do believe I have heard of such a breed.” He struggled to keep his tone as serious as possible, “But then, it is so rare, that it is entirely possible that no one is very familiar with it.”
“There! You see, Clarence? I told you so!” Cedric exclaimed triumphantly.
Clarence remained unconvinced. “Yes, I see what you mean, sir,” he concluded doubtfully, cocking his head to look speculatively at the marquess. He was rewarded with a significant wink, confirming his initial impression that the marquess was a right one just like Cousin Caro. In fact, he reflected, judging from his encounters of the past week, perhaps grown-ups weren’t half bad after all. Before he could explore this revelation further, he heard his cousin’s brisk step in the hall and Wigmore’s sepulchral voice informing her that the carriage awaited them. “Come, Ceddie. We mustn’t keep the horses or Cousin Caro waiting,” Clarence admonished his brother. Turning to the marquess, he held out his hand, “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir and . . . thank you.”
Nicholas shook it gravely. “The pleasure was mine, I assure you.” He smiled, thinking as he did so that he had made a far more favorable impression in the few brief moments with these two children than he had in either of his encounters with their cousin. They were charming boys, he concluded as he watched them run downstairs. Their mother would have made sure of that, but he wondered what sort of boyhood they had living the hothouse existence that they did. Unconsciously following the example set by Caro, he resolved to do what he could to make their lives more exciting.
Chapter 9
This plan was foremost in his mind when Lavinia appeared in the drawing room some ten minutes later. “Why, Nicholas,” she exclaimed floating gracefully toward him, one delicate white hand extended. “How perfectly charming to see you. When Wigmore told me who was below I positively rushed Crimmins through my toilette. I am sure I must look a dreadful fright,” she sighed, knowing full well that every curl was in place under the dainty Parisian mobcap and that the pelerine collar of her pink jaconet morning dress framed her face to perfection, its delicate tint making her appear as youthful as when Nicholas had first met her.
The marquess’s eyes swept appreciatively over the countess, well aware that the charming disarray of curls peeking out from under the cap owed far more to art than haste. Well enough versed in the ways of females, he felt reasonably certain that she had changed her costume the moment a visitor was announced.
In fact she had. The instant Wigmore had disappeared, she had rounded on Crimmins who was struggling with the buttons of a shaded yellow jaconet with stripes, “Crimmins, not that old thing! Why it makes me look positively hagridden!”
“But madam selected this one,” the abigail responded firmly. Devoted though she might be to her lady, Crimmins was not about to assume blame that was not hers.
“That’s as may be, but you should know better than to let me choose it,” Lavinia snapped.
The maid smiled grimly to herself as she went in search of a replacement. So, this Marquess of Everleigh was a personage of some importance to her ladyship. It was not a name Crimmins had heard before. This would bear some watching. Perhaps she would even unbend enough to share a cup of tea with Mr. Wigmore in the interests of gaining more information.
It was a great pity, that it was, that his lordship had died so unexpectedly leaving her mistress widowed like that, and her so gay and full of life. Not that his lordship could hold a candle to his wife. Oh, he had been as kind as could be, lavishing both mistress and maid with every conceivable luxury, but he had not had much in the brain box, poor man. It had taken all his mental faculties, not to mention an extremely knowledgeable valet to turn him out as exquisitely as he always appeared. But beyond that, he had not had much thought for anything else. It had been Lavinia who had created the brilliant gatherings and filled his amiable silences with gay chatter. It was the Countess of Welham who had made the couple into the leading lights of the fashionable world. Well, Crimmins hoped this new gentleman was someone who was more worthy of her mistress and one who would give her the gaiety she needed so much, poor lamb. And tucking one ringlet under the cap, Crimmins had sent her mistress on her way with no less excitement and hope than her devoted servant harbored in her desiccated breast.
For all her angular frame and dour expression, Miss Crimmins possessed the soul of a romantic. She had taken one look at the Countess of Welham’s melting blue eyes and delicate figure and had become her devoted slave—not that she would ever have admitted to such a thing. In spite of the warnings from the other servants about my lady’s selfishness and her uncertain temper, Crimmins had taken the position with alacrity. If her mistress were demanding, why so she should be. Anyone as beautiful and petted as Lavinia could not help herself. And if she seemed oblivious to the needs of others, how could she help it, beset as she was on all sides by eager admirers who demanded her attention.
All the small displays of temperament, the heedlessness to others’ comfort were invariably forgiven when Lavinia, exhausted from some ball, would allow Crimmins, who had waited until all hours for her return, to brush her hair, massage her forehead, and dab her temples with lavender water, remarking as she gave herself up to these tender ministrations, “It is not easy being an incomparable, Crimmins. People are forever wanting your attention and they are always ready to notice a wrinkle or a spot, or when you are not looking quite the thing.” And Crimmins would murmur soothingly, knowing that her mistress would be restored by the inevitable barrage of floral tributes that would appear in Grosvenor Square
the following morning. She hoped that this time around, the countess would find someone strong enough to take care of her and keep her from tiring herself out as she always did in an effort to respond to her constant court of admirers.
In the meantime, much the same thoughts were going through her mistress’s head as she peeped provocatively up at Nicholas over the fragrant bouquet he offered. “How lovely they are, Nicky,” Lavinia sighed dreamily. “I do love beautiful things, and it’s been so long since anyone has brought me flowers.” She allowed just a hint of tears to sparkle in the big blue eyes. Then, with a brave attempt at gaiety, she laughed, “Though I vow, you must have stripped the conservatory bare. Foolish man, you always were so extravagant.” She dimpled up at him, treating him to the full and devastating effect of her rosebud mouth, pearly teeth, and sweeping lashes.
Nicholas smiled down at her appreciatively. “I find that hard to believe, Lavvy. You always had an admiring entourage around you, lavishing you with tributes, and now you are more beautiful than ever.’’
She looked up at him wide-eyed. “Really? “
“Truly. You may depend upon it. You know that I am not like one of your town beaux. I do not offer Spanish coin.”
“No, you never did.” A tiny smile hovered at the comer of her mouth. “But there are no beaux now. Widows are not very amusing, you know, and no one wants to call on one.” Her voice quavered pathetically. “You know me, Nicky. I must have gaiety, music, and laughter, and I have been immured in this house with no one, positively no one to keep me amused.”
In spite of himself, Nicholas was touched. He knew, and had known since the disastrous evening she had rejected him, that Lavinia was a vain and frivolous creature. And he knew how miserable she must have been when cut off from the admiration and excitement to which she was accustomed.
Having been the center of attention all her life, she would have had no resources to fall back on for amusement. She must have been amazingly bored and lonely. Imagining her in this state brought to mind someone else who would have reveled in it. He could picture Lady Caroline Waverly delighted with the excuse to keep the world at bay and plunge into her projects and her books and he could not help remarking to himself on the irony of it all.
“Nicky,” a silvery voice interrupted his fit of abstraction.
He started. “Beg your pardon, Lavvy. I was just thinking how flat your life must have been. We shall have to do something about it.” And before he knew it, the marquess found himself extending an invitation to the countess and her companions for an evening at the opera.
Lavinia was all grateful delight. “Oh, Nicky, I knew you would understand. I knew I could count on you to rescue me.” She clung to one muscular arm. “You always were kinder than my other admirers.”
“Just not as brilliant a catch,” he could not help replying sardonically.
“Oh no, Nicky!” Lavvy was scandalized at such plain speaking. “It was never that! You were always my favorite, but Papa and Mama would never have countenanced my marriage to a younger son.”
Nicholas’s vision of the bluff Earl of Mandeville did not precisely coincide with this interpretation, but he let it pass. However, some doubt must have revealed itself in his face for Lavvy continued hastily, “Of course, I was excessively fond of Herbert, but I felt none of the passionate attachment toward him that I did toward you.”
She looked so earnest, her big blue eyes pleading, and the hand on his sleeve trembling slightly, that Nicholas almost believed her, but somehow he could not entirely wipe from his mind the way she used to pull away during his most ardent lovemaking with a light laugh and some excuse—he was pulling her dress, disarranging her coiffure, or stepping on her slipper. Still, he supposed that in her own way, she was speaking the truth.
It was difficult to picture anyone being passionately attracted to the foppish Earl of Welham, no matter how convivial he was. So whatever Lavinia had felt towards the dashing Captain Daventry had been bound to be more intense than the emotions she experienced toward her husband.
Nicholas smiled reassuringly at her, “You flatter me, Lavinia, but I thank you for the compliment, just the same. And now I am afraid I must go. I promised Mama and Clarissa that I would drive them in the park. I look forward to escorting you to the opera.”
She glanced coyly up at him, “I shall count upon it, but I depend upon you to tell me how to go on. I vow I am tremendously rusty after this period of isolation and I no longer have the least notion how to conduct myself.”
“Nonsense! I saw you at the Countess of Mortmain’s rout. As always, you were the cynosure of all eyes. You have not lost your power to charm even the coldest of men.”
She laughed gaily. “Naughty man! Does nothing escape your eagle eye? You always were too observant by half. Now be off with you, for I have a dressmaker coming. I must refurbish my wardrobe. I have not a single thing to wear that is not black or gray and I am extremely ennuyée with looking so hag-ridden. Black is not my best color and I find myself heartily sick of it.” She glided over to ring for Wigmore.
“Lavvy, you know there is not a color in the world in which you do not look perfectly charming, but I can see how you might be looking forward to a wider selection for your new wardrobe, which, I have no doubt, will be as exquisite as always,” he responded gallantly, bowing over her hand.
“And now who is the flatterer, my lord?” Lavvy teased, but she could not hide the satisfaction in her voice. “Do not be a stranger, Nicholas,” she admonished as he followed the silent butler to the door. Really, Lavinia thought to herself in annoyance, must Wigmore always be so prompt?
Driving through the park sometime later with his mother and sister, Nicholas was reflecting on the latest encounter with his lost love. There was no denying that her beauty continued to exert its heady power over him despite his acknowledgement of her vanity. Lavinia was still the creature of the fashionable world that she had always been, but her widowhood seemed to have softened her in some indescribable way, and he found himself feeling sorry for her.
For her part, Lavvy was well satisfied with the outcome of the marquess’s visit. Secure in her own power to attract, she had felt confident of his favorable response at such a public place as the Countess of Mortmain’s rout. But given the churlish way he had gone off and left her after she had pointed out the impossibility of their marrying, then going all through the war without so much as a word, she had not been at all sure if he would pursue her beyond their encounter at the rout.
His subsequent call had been promising, but it could have been merely the result of good manners. Certainly he had not singled out anyone else for his attention the rest of the evening at the countess’s. Lavvy had made sure of that. But there had been a look in his eyes today, as though he were assessing her, passing some sort of judgement on her, and Lavinia had not been altogether certain how to act. Deciding to play the part of the lonely widow had been just the right touch. The moment her eyes had filled with tears, his face had softened and she could see traces of her own former adoring Nicholas. Yes, she sighed with satisfaction as the dressmaker pinned and draped, events were proceeding very well indeed.
Not that the Countess of Welham had been entirely bereft of cicisbeos since her seclusion, but she had not been able to continue with the retinue of admirers she had formerly attracted, nor had she been able to flaunt them in public. To be sure, Sir Evelyn Willoughby had been extremely devoted, but having someone visit you ostensibly to discuss old books with your sons’ tutor or because he was interested in the education of your boys was not the same as having a devoted gallant. Well, all that was changed now and Lavinia looked forward to making the most of it.
Meanwhile, the object of the countess’s congratulatory musings was being boisterously hailed by her brother. “Nicky!” Tony exclaimed joyously, easing an enormous and fidgety bay through the press of riders in the direction of the marquess’s carriage. “Glad to see you in town, old fellow.” He ran an experienced eye
over the marquess’s cattle. “Those Wilmington’s grays? Lucky dog! I’ve had my eye on them for months. Didn’t know he was selling up.”
Nicholas grinned. “That’s because you move with too rackety a crowd. We serious older fellows stick together. He wouldn’t part with his precious pair to a mere whipster like you who has more bottom than sense. He wanted nothing less than the head of an ancient titled family for these. But here, say hello to Mama and Clary.”
“Delighted to see you here.” Tony extended a huge paw to the marchioness before turning to her daughter. “By Jove, but you’ve turned into a taking little thing,” he exclaimed.
Clary laughed and blushed. The viscount’s astonishment was too patent to be anything but absolutely genuine and it did more for her spirits than she realized. “Now Tony, I thought you only reserved such flattery for horses. If you stay on the town much longer, you will be in danger of becoming a ladies’ man.”
He pulled a face of mock horror. “Never say so!” Then, catching sight of another elegant equipage pulled by an equally stunning pair, he boomed, “Cousin Caro,” and waved her over towards the group.
Dimmock, displaying a skill equal to the viscount’s, maneuvered between a lumbering barouche and a precariously balanced phaeton to reach them.
“Well, now I am cast totally in the shade and my reputation with Clarence and Cedric is ripped to shreds,” Caro declared, running an eye over the marquess’s team. “Where did you find such a stunning pair?”
“Don’t be a nodcock, Caro.” Tony was disgusted. “Don’t you see they’re Wilmington’s grays? Even the merest whipster would recognize them.”
“You forget. Tony, that I have been leading an exemplary life deep in the country, not frivoling it away in the metropolis where some people seem to have nothing better to do than ogle other people’s cattle,” she teased.
The Bluestocking's Dilemma Page 7
