Three Abductions and an Earl:

by Tessa Candle

  “—More biscuits, Moll, if you please,” Lydia told the servant as she entered. She returned to her story, “Her brother took my part after Lady Aldley left, and I think Miss Delacroix believed him.”

  “Mr. Delacroix, eh? So he roused himself from the euphoria of staring at Miss Dervish for long enough to defend you. Astounding. In any case, none of this is anything that would give Lady Aldley a moment's unease, much less anger her.”

  Lydia decided it would be better not to speak of her unpleasant encounters with Mr. Delacroix. “No, but her ladyship did seem upset by something Mr. Delacroix said. He suggested that she had some acquaintance in the place from which Lady Goodram and my mother both come, Warwickshire. She denied it at first. And then confirmed that she had been acquainted with one of the Beauchamps, in Warwick. Then Lady Aldley left abruptly. But I admit, I just thought it was her usual manner to be a bit abrupt.”

  Tilly perked up. “But then she went directly to take her leave of Lady Delacroix. Yes, indeed, that could be the thing. What was the name of the acquaintance?”

  “I do not recall.” Lydia thought for a moment. “Mrs. Wurther-something.”

  “Wurthington?”

  “No, I think I should have remembered that name.” Lydia tapped her head with a finger. “Wurtherly, I think it was Wurtherly. Nee Beauchamps, I should assume.”

  “Hmm. No one I know. But it is all very intriguing, is it not?” Tilly sipped her tea happily.

  “I suppose it might be. I was just relieved to escape Lady Aldley's interrogation.” Lydia shook her head. “It was almost as if she thought I was concocting the connection in order to pass myself off in society.”

  “From what I have observed, her ladyship's mode of address makes a simple conversation about the weather sound like an inquisition. She may not have meant much by it. It may even have been an attempt at civility.” Tilly gave Lydia a mock look of alarm.

  “Good Lord.” Lydia grimaced. “I hope I am never made the object of her incivility.”

  “Stay clear of her son, then. I believe she has expectations of both wealth and status for his future wife.”

  Moll returned with a full plate of biscuits, to which Tilly helped herself before the servant had even closed the door behind her.

  “I should not think it will be too difficult to avoid her son,” observed Lydia with some relief, “as I have not been invited to her ball. And to my knowledge the Delacroixs are my only connection to the Aldleys, and an apparently tenuous one at that.”

  “You have only been in town for a few weeks, and you only made Lady Aldley's acquaintance last night—though you may be sure that she—” Tilly broke off as Mrs. Norwood entered the parlour.

  “Mrs. Norwood. How delightful to see you again. Lydia told me you have been out to call on Lady Goodram.”

  Lydia marvelled at how completely Tilly's face transformed from the aspect of an incorrigible little mischief-maker to that of a supremely serene and well-behaved young maiden, all in the moments that it took to greet her mother. She even sat up straight so that her back did not touch the chair.

  “Indeed I was.” Mrs. Norwood sat down. “She has been ill this last week, and I wanted to bring her some fruit and flowers to speed her recovery. She expressed a wish that you had come too, Lydia.”

  “I thought it better not to overwhelm her with too much company just now.” Lydia poured a cup of tea for her mother.

  “That is just what I told her.” Mrs. Norwood patted Lydia's arm. “But she says she is very nearly cured now, and will be at home on Monday morning, so you may pay her a call then.”

  “I should be delighted.”

  “Indeed, Lydia,” added Tilly, “You are very fortunate to have such a friend as Lady Goodram. She is a highly respected person, and a rather delightful conversationalist.”

  “Do you know Lady Goodram, Miss Ravelsham?” Mrs. Norwood beamed.

  “I have had the pleasure of meeting her once or twice, though I do not enjoy such a close acquaintance with her ladyship as you and Lydia do.” Tilly sipped her tea, primly, without a hint of slurping.

  Mrs. Norwood lifted her cup, and then paused before sipping. “She is like a second mother to me, and has promised to assist Lydia in society, which is ever so important, as we are all but unknown among the London ton.”

  “I do not claim any great experience,” Tilly lowered her lashes, “but with the ton, I believe a little mystery can be a good thing.”

  “Perhaps—yes perhaps.” Mrs. Norwood brightened at the thought. “Will you stay to dine, Miss Ravelsham? Cook has got a nice piece of cod, and she is rather a magician with fish, if I may say so.”

  “I should love to stay but my mother has given me strict directions to be home as we are to entertain my betrothed and his parents. The DeGroens are recently come to town from Amsterdam.”

  “Oh how very exciting. I am surprised you are not home all a-dither trying to pick out the perfect frock. You are much more sensible than I was at your age.”

  “It is kind of you to say it, but the truth is that I did all my dithering last week, and my gown is now laid out and ready.” Tilly rose. “Of course, I am still anxious to make a good impression with his parents.”

  “I am sure you shall. They will be delighted with you.”

  “I hope you are right, Mrs. Norwood. Ah but I hear the bells ringing three, and I should be going.”

  “I shall ring for your carriage. But I hope you will soon call on us again. It is so nice for Lydia to have made a good friend here. She is not much used to society, and I am sure you will be a great source of guidance for her.”

  Tilly smiled tranquilly and said, “I shall certainly do my best, Mrs. Norwood.”

  It was shortly before dinner, and Lydia changed into an evening dress and gloves, and came downstairs to read until her father and Mr. Mortimer arrived. She was intercepted upon the stairs by her out-of-breath mother, however, who excitedly grasped her hand and said, “My dear you will never guess who has come to call on you.”

  Lydia was puzzled. “I had understood that Papa invited Mr. Mortimer to dinner. Surely no one else is calling at this hour.”

  “Oh the hour is neither here nor there. Mr. Delacroix is waiting in the parlour.” Mrs. Norwood clearly ascribed great significance to the event.

  “Mr. Delacroix.” Lydia felt the blood drain from her face. How could he have the nerve? “I cannot account for his calling upon us, and I do not wish to speak with Mr. Delacroix.”

  “Of course you do, now off with you.” Her mother guided her down the remaining stairs and pushed her into the south parlour, following behind. With a broad smile at Mr. Delacroix who stood to receive them, Mrs. Norwood stationed herself on a chair in the far corner to terrorize an innocently by-standing needle point loop.

  “Mr. Delacroix.” The tendons in Lydia's neck stood out like pillars supporting the frosty fortress of her face.

  “Miss Norwood.” He gave her a well-oiled smile. “I hope I find you well.”

  “Indeed.” Lydia kept her voice low, lest her mother should hear, and added, “I have not had to tolerate impertinence from trespassers, recently. I find myself quite refreshed.”

  He chuckled as though she had said this in jest. “Oh quite. You must be tip top, then. You certainly are in your best looks.” He stepped closer and murmured, “Surely you cannot blame a moth for being drawn to such a flame.”

  Lydia's mouth was a hard line. “I had understood that to be a fatal attraction. And I detest the sight of moths.”

  “You are such a cruel goddess. Do you not care at all for the feelings of the lowly creatures who seek only to worship you?” His eyes moved unctuously over her form, and Lydia shuddered.

  “I do not spare a thought for the debased creatures who only flutter toward light because their tendency to sneak about in the dark makes them indiscriminately hurl themselves at any visible target.”

  He grasped her hand suddenly, and Lydia snatched it back. “I shall than
k you to keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

  “You will thank me?” His blue eyes glowed coldly and he smiled. “And by what means will you repay me for my forbearance?”

  “In case such rudimentary virtue is not its own reward,” Lydia replied through clenched teeth, “I shall in return forbear from slapping you in the face and ordering the servants to see you out permanently.”

  Mr. Delacroix shook his head slightly. “You country girls are so delightfully provincial. No London lady would ever consider a little hand press such an affront.”

  She refused to meet his gaze. “It is the person, rather than the gesture that is the affront, sir.”

  “But you cannot refuse to receive me.” He laughed and tried to step still closer to her, though she moved away. “Not when our families are acquainted, your mother likes me so well, and your father and I play cards together. You have no say in the matter.” He gripped her hand again and pressed it to his lips.

  Her stomach shivered. This intrusive behaviour completely defeated his good looks, and she was repulsed. She would have to burn the gloves now anyway, what would a little blood stain matter? But she could not give a beating to a guest, at least not in front of her mother.

  So she slid her hand out, and left him holding her glove as she made for the door, calling out, “Mama, I have misplaced one of my gloves. Will you ring for Mr. Delacroix's carriage? He is leaving now. I shall go retrieve a new pair before dinner.”

  “Oh! So soon?” Mrs. Norwood looked disappointed. “I was about to ring for some refreshments.” She sighed. “But, very well, I shall ring for the footman.”

  “Pray, do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Norwood.” Delacroix hurried after Lydia. “My carriage awaits and I shall see myself out.”

  He followed Lydia through the parlour door. Was he intending to chase her up the stairs to her chambers?

  Just then her father appeared in the company of Mr. Mortimer. Lydia greeted Mr. Mortimer and flew to her father's side, kissing him on the cheek and inserting her arm into his.

  “Hello, my dear. Are you here, Mr. Delacroix?” Mr. Norwood looked surprised. “Do we have some business I have forgotten?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Norwood.” Delacroix assumed a plausible smile. “I came to call upon your amiable daughter. We were lately made acquainted at my mother's dinner party.”

  “However he was just leaving.” Lydia was not about to let him insinuate himself into the dinner table.

  Mr. Delacroix bowed, and as he made to tuck her glove into his jacket, Lydia added, “Oh look, you have found my glove. How clever.”

  His grin was menacing as he handed it back to her. “Is it yours? Glad to be of service, Miss Norwood.”

  Her father raised a bushy eyebrow. “Oh aye, and quite a service it is, Delacroix. Stashing away a girl's glove in your pocket. Well, Greenall, as you're here, do show Mr. Delacroix out. Good evening, sir. Send our greetings to your mother and sister.”

  He grasped Lydia's arm a little more firmly, just as Mrs. Norwood obliviously dawdled her way out of the south parlour to join them and yawned, saying, “Needle work always makes me so drowsy.”

  As Mr. Norwood led them both to the dining room he whispered in Lydia's ear. “I hope you were not giving Mr. Delacroix your glove as a love token.”

  Lydia huffed incredulously. “Certainly not.”

  “Glad to hear it. Those gloves are exorbitantly priced—sets my teeth on edge to think upon it. And I have recently learned that Delacroix hasn't a sixpence to scratch with. T'would be throwing good money after bad.”

  When they were all seated to dine, her father proposed a toast. “To old friends: may the future draw them ever closer.” There was a gleam in her father's eye, as though he attached particular significance to the words. But then, he and Mr. Mortimer were probably half-sprung after their visit to the club.

  “Your mother tells me you have made a new friend, my dear.” Her father served her some white wine.

  “You mean Miss Ravelsham. I made her acquaintance some time ago, but only recently discovered how very amiable she is. And she is patient with me, even though I am so unfamiliar with London manners.”

  “She is soon to be married, I think?” Her father inquired.

  “Yes, to Mr. John DeGroen—though I understand it is to be a long engagement.”

  “Ah yes,” Mr. Mortimer nodded. “I believe his family have made a fortune cultivating plants in Holland and in the colonies.”

  “And her family has had similar success in plant husbandry, it seems.” Lydia felt a bit self-conscious speaking on such a vulgar topic before a guest. “So I suppose the match is well made.”

  “And you are to be at Lady Goodram's ball next week, are you not?” Mr. Norwood spooned sauce over his cod, and liberally peppered it.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Well good. I hope you will wear a very pretty frock.” Mr. Norwood's eyes were suddenly wet.

  She had never seen her father weep, even a little. Perhaps it was too much pepper, or too much drink, but this was the second time he had been visibly distressed while admonishing her to dress prettily. It was all very odd. She paid special attention to her potatoes and pretended not to see.

  He cleared his throat and recomposed himself. “And Mortimer, here, will be there as well, so perhaps you can save a dance for him, eh?”

  She was still formulating a polite reply that did not create an obligation, when Mr. Mortimer declared with a chuckle, “Oh don't be a great simpleton, Norwood. You can't go ruining her first ball of the season by filling her dance card in advance with elderly family friends. I shall go and stand in line with all the others.”

  Mr. Norwood looked aghast. “Lord! If you are elderly, I must be near the grave.”

  “No, old boy, you just smell like it.”

  Mr. Norwood laughed long and loudly. The awkward moment had passed, but Lydia could not help feeling there was something very wrong with her father.

  After brandy and tea and a long chat by the fire, it was at last time for Mr. Mortimer to take his leave. He thanked her parents heartily, then clasped Lydia's hand in both of his, almost like her father would do, and said, “I greatly look forward to seeing you at the ball, Miss Norwood.”

  “I am sure it will be my pleasure.” It was all she could think to politely say.

  Was he meaning to woo her? She could hardly think of it without confusion. The man was nearly twice her age, and her father's friend. It seemed unfitting. She knew it was not unheard of for such matches to occur, but she had no feelings for him, save the slight friendship she would feel for any old comrade of her father's.

  Not that she had so very much experience with affairs of the heart—in fact she had none. But she had read books, and even if they grossly exaggerated the matter, she could not think their descriptions of the raptures young ladies experienced in the presence of their beaux bore even a passing resemblance to her own feelings about Mr. Mortimer.

  Chapter 7

  After so much time in Paris, Lord Aldley found himself in the London Aldley house again, waiting in the cold, pristine breakfast room.

  The silver on the sideboard was polished to a mirror shine and held vigil over a perfect pyramid of dried fruits. He resisted the temptation to rumple the immaculately pressed white linen cloth that covered the table and formed crisp, straight creases at the corners.

  Legally the house was his own, but he had left his mother in residence rather than remove her to the dowager house down the street. Looking around at the perfectly coiffed ornamental plants and the freshly redone, pewter grey and rose upholstery on every curvy legged, overly fussy chair, he did not feel the lack. Bachelor comforts were better provided in his own, smaller dwelling.

  He had not even really wanted to come, but he was not one to allow personal preferences to take precedence over duty. A stifled yawn contorted his face. He had not yet recovered from his return journey across the channel.

  Lady Aldley entered and gave
Aldley her cheek to kiss, smiling sweetly at him. “Welcome home, my son.”

  He kissed her. “Thank you. You look very well, Mama.”

  “It is sweet of you to say, and I have had no complaints at all. I find living in London agrees with me. Shall we sit down?”

  They sat and busied themselves with choosing among the kippers, sausages, blood puddings, eggs, and breads laid out on the table before them.

  Lady Aldley poured the tea neatly and said, “How pleasant it is to breakfast with one's son. I hate to turn to practical matters so soon, but I need to ask you for some money.”

  “Certainly.” Aldley sipped his tea. At least his mother's tea was tolerably strong and had the right balance. He was certain it was of the finest quality. “I shall have a draft made up for you at once. How much do you need?”

  “About a thousand pounds should do.” Her demeanour was untroubled.

  Aldley's eyebrows only twitched slightly. “Very well, I shall see to it this afternoon.”

  He hoped she had not taken up gambling. As his father had not left much directly to her, Aldley had set up an annuity for her, paid the household expenses, and resolved to always be generous besides. She had grown accustomed to living like a countess, after all.

  “Thank you. It is so good to have you here, Thomas. It has been such a long time and is such a relief that you are safely back in England. I do hope you plan to settle down here, now.” Lady Aldley spread butter on her roll, then set it precisely in the centre of her bread plate.

  “If, by settle down, Mama, you mean marry the woman you pick out for me, then I am afraid I must disoblige you.”

  “You know that my only concern is for your well being and the continuation of the Aldley line. You will not be happy unless you choose a respectable lady, not beneath your sphere, with good connections and an appropriate dowry.”

  “Such ladies are hardly ten-a-penny.” Aldley sampled his omelette appreciatively. The mushrooms were perfectly sautéed. “And I should prefer not to be forced to choose between a pretty simpleton and a lady with teeth as long as the list of her antecedents.”