“Of course, Your Grace,” Wallace said with a deep bow before going to do as William bade.
William took a deep breath. He would have to deal with Barnard and Clancy at a later time. For now, it was much more important that he call on Miss Fortescue and explain what had happened. And to hope she would accept his strange explanation.
***
Lydia had searched for more than twenty minutes for the second glove of the pair she wished to wear, only to find that it had fallen behind the vanity table. She slid the glove onto her hand and smiled, only to turn and find Anne, one of the chambermaids employed by her father, standing at the door with a rag in her hand. The young girl, just twelve years of age, was dear to Lydia’s heart, for she had an innocence about her that Lydia hoped would never be lost.
“Miss Lydia,” Anne said in her typical quiet voice, “I know it’s not my place to know what yer doin’, but I worry for ye. The streets of London are dangerous at night.” The fact this warning came from such a young child did not pass Lydia.
She smiled. Jenny did tend to have a loose tongue, and Lydia would have to admonish the girl for sharing Lydia’s plans with others. “Thank you. Your warning is appreciated, but do not worry about me. I will be safe. Helen will be with me, and we both know that no man or beast would dare attempt to place a hand on her.”
Anne giggled. “That’s true, Miss. I know the servants never talk back to her.”
Lydia stifled a laugh and then looked up just as Helen tapped on the frame of the door. “All right, Anne,” she said with a smile. “It is time for you to go to bed.”
“I still have to dust,” the girl said, though her eyes went to Lydia’s bed. Many times throughout the week, Lydia would leave a small sweet for Anne, and it had become a small game between the two.
“Well, you may check that my pillows are fluffed,” Lydia said as she pulled at her gloves once more as if what the girl did mattered not to her. “Then it is off to bed with you.”
With a quick curtsy, Anne grinned and replied, “Yes, Miss.” Then she hurried over to the bed, made a pretense of fluffing the pillows—finding the treat in the process. Her grin widened, and she turned to Lydia, who gave her a quick wink.
“Now, remember, just because you find a treat for yourself under my pillow does not mean that every treat you find beneath other pillows are yours.”
“Oh, I know, Miss,” Anne replied as she placed the small candy in her pocket as if it were a fragile treasure. “And thank you.” The last was said in a quick whisper before the girl bounded out of the room, heading toward the door that led to the servants’ quarters in the attic.
“It is no wonder Cook complains about the girl picking at her food at mealtimes,” Helen chastised, though her lips flickered with a small smile at the corners.
Lydia feigned a diffident sniff. “The joy it brings her,” she replied, “is well worth it.”
Helen retrieved a card from her pocket and handed it to Lydia. “I was not sure if you would want this,” she said. “But I think you should take it.”
Lydia nodded, though her curiosity was piqued. That is, until she saw that the card came from the Duke of Bennington. It was the second she had received in just over a week, and she was growing weary of his persistence. He had made his thoughts clear the previous year; she did not have to be subjected to his rudeness if she so chose not to be.
“Thank you,” she replied as she placed the card on her vanity table. “We really should be going. The meeting will start soon, and I do not want to be late.”
Helen placed a hand on Lydia’s arm. “Do you not think you should give him an answer?”
Lydia shrugged. “I do not know. The circus was fun, and he acted the gentleman.” Thoughts of that night brought a smile to her face despite her attempts to keep her features neutral. “I worry that it was all part of a ruse. A childish one at that.”
“Well, it is not for me to make the decision for you,” Helen said. “Perhaps you can think about it for now. There is no need to decide at this moment.”
“I thought you considered the Duke a beast,” Lydia whispered as they headed down the hallway. Mrs. Ridge was asleep, and Lydia did not wish her to wake and find her sneaking out into the night. If her father learned Helen had been a willing participant in Lydia’s misbehavior, he would see the woman sent away without a second thought. Lydia found the thought of that happening unbearable.
Not that Mrs. Ridge would have heard anyway, Lydia thought with a silent giggle. The woman could barely hear words when someone beside her spoke; the chances of her hearing the swishing of their skirts or the whisper of their voices were slim.
“Oh, I still do consider him a beast,” Helen replied as they made their way down the stairs. “But I want to know whether he truly cares for you or if he is a madman.”
Lydia stopped and reached out for her aunt’s arm. “And if you determine he is mad?”
“Then I will hurt him,” she replied soberly before giving Lydia a wink and making her giggle again.
As they got to the bottom of the stairs, both women stopped, surprised to find Wallace standing by the front door, his hands clasped in front of him.
“Miss Lydia,” he said, a shakiness in his voice Lydia was unaccustomed to hearing from the man, “if your father was to learn what you have been doing, and that I did nothing to stop you, he would beat me in front of all of the servants as a lesson.”
“Wallace,” Helen said, “the Baron will be gone for a week, so stop your worrying.”
Lydia’s father had left the day before on business, and the only obligation Lydia had made was to attend a party taking place that Friday. Otherwise, she was free to do as she pleased—within reason, of course. She still was not allowed to venture out without a chaperon, thus the need to have Helen accompany her tonight. She could say with all honesty that she had not left the house without a chaperon; which chaperon was not important. The fact that their destination would have left Mrs. Ridge with the vapors did little to keep Lydia from her course of action this night.
The butler bowed as he opened the door, and Lydia followed Helen to where a carriage waited out front. Soon they were on their way, and Lydia sighed as she pushed back the drapes on the window. For a moment, she imagined the Duke riding beside them, standing in his saddle like a rider at the circus. Swinging a great sword above his head, he would extend a rose he had attached to the end of it to Lydia and tell her how sorry he was for his cruel actions. She would smell the rose and realize he was a gentleman after all.
Then she sat back as a horse passed, its rider dressed all in black, only a silhouette with the light of the streetlamps behind him. For some odd reason, she thought the man was the Duke himself, but that made little sense. Why would he be out at such an hour dressed as this man was?
“Are you all right?” Helen asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a spirit.”
“Spirit, gentleman, or rogue,” she said, “which it was, I am not sure.”
Chapter Nine
The cool night air blew past William as he rode his steed through the London streets. He was not but two streets from the Fortescue residence when an approaching carriage passed by him. With the streetlights highlighting her face, he had no doubt that the woman within that carriage was, in fact, Miss Fortescue.
Slowing his horse, he looked back and a thought passed through his mind. Where would she be going at this late hour? It was nearly nine in the evening! No parties of which he was aware had been planned for tonight, and even if one to which he was not invited had been scheduled, she would have left much earlier. Furthermore, if she had left a recent gathering, she would have been headed toward her home and not away from it.
Then another thought came to him, one he wanted to dismiss almost immediately but found it difficult to do so. What of the rumors he had heard of the woman prowling the streets of London and having an affair with a man thrice her age? Could that be the reason she was out at such a late hour?
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Shaking his head, he cursed himself for even considering such nonsense.
“Yet, where does she go this late?” he whispered as the carriage disappeared into the night.
It would be improper as a gentleman and a duke to follow her, yet he could not return home before knowing the truth. He needed to speak to her, and each minute that passed without her plagued him. Therefore, with a flick of his reins, he pointed the horse toward the direction the carriage had taken.
It did not take him long to find the vehicle, and he kept a fair distance behind as he followed it down the street. He considered what he would say when he spoke to her. Of course, he would apologize on behalf of that idiot Barnard, and then he would tell her that he was sorry for keeping with such company. The woman had mentioned pirates and murders, and William felt shame, for Barnard was just as bad as either.
“Well, maybe not as bad, but bad nonetheless.”
The carriage weaved through the city streets, few people around at such a late hour. After some time, the vehicle came to a stop, and William pulled back on the reins to watch from around the corner of a nearby cross-street as the driver jumped down from his seat, set the step on the ground, and opened the door.
Miss Fortescue exited, followed by a woman William did not know. The two women huddled together with the driver, who then returned to the carriage and drove off without them.
William puzzled at what Miss Fortescue and her companion could be doing in this part of the city. It was not necessarily a bad area, but it was not the typical place one would find a woman of Miss Fortescue’s standing. Tethering the horse to a nearby post, William sneaked to glance around the corner of the building once more only to find both women gone.
Cursing, he hurried down the footpath that ran along the front of several small shops, and as he passed an alley, he heard the faint sound of a woman’s voice. There, walking down the alleyway, were the two women.
How strange, he thought, his curiosity piqued all the more. Sticking to the shadows, his hands against the brick of the buildings, he crept along the walls, keeping the two women in sight. They turned right and a short time later left. At one point, Miss Fortescue glanced over her shoulder, and William shifted into a dark doorway, worried that she might have seen him. When he peeked out, however, she had continued down the street without pause, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he began his tracking once again.
When they reached a street lined with rows of terrace houses, the women walked up a set of steps that led to a large, red door and knocked. William hid in the shadows of a nearby bush and watched as the door opened to an elderly man with a long, gray beard, who gave Miss Fortescue a wide smile before moving aside to allow the two women to enter.
If that had been all, perhaps William would have been, if not pleased, satisfied. However, when Miss Fortescue threw her arms around the old man and drew him into a deep embrace, William had to cover his mouth to keep from gasping and thus be discovered. When the door closed, he could only stand there, staring toward the house, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging open.
The rumors concerning the woman were true! What other explanation could there be for the daughter of a baron calling on an old man who was clearly not of the ton in the middle of the night and embracing him? He was clearly more than simply a friend, or she would have been less likely to show such open affection for him. Was she there to share secretive kisses with a friend of that man?
William felt both sick and worried, unsure as to what to do. He could easily turn back, retrieve his horse, and never think of the woman again. However, as that plan formed in his mind, he dismissed it. He had been mesmerized by this woman for too long; he had to see with his own eyes what was taking place in that house.
Decision made, and with the softest of footsteps, he went up the steps that led to the door of the house in which Miss Fortescue had entered. From there, he leaned over an iron railing to look into a large window. Inside, he saw not only the old man who had answered the door, but four others. Miss Fortescue and her companion were sharing in hugs and kisses on cheeks with another woman of perhaps thirty years of age who he did not recognize. They were all laughing and talking together as if they were well-acquainted, and William pulled himself back from the window. He felt no motivation to leave, but he could not be caught peeking into the window from the front step. Then he noticed a large stump behind one of the bushes in front of the window. It was just the height that, if he were to stand on it, he would be able to see inside. Granted, the bushes would not cover him completely, but they would give him better cover than leaning over the railing was doing.
As he climbed through the bushes, he contemplated the actions of Miss Fortescue and what had driven her to take such actions.
***
Truth be told, Lydia was more than fascinated with Mr. Edward Lancing, she was enthralled. The man spoke with such passion that both she and Helen were wiping at their eyes before the end of his presentation.
“Which brings us back to our original question for this evening,” Mr. Lancing said from his place in the circle. “Does true love exist? Or are the philosophers correct in their assessment that it is merely a fleeting thought that attaches itself to one’s psyche?” He brought his hand up to stroke his gray beard. “Miss Violet? Feel free to give us your opinion on this matter. You will find none here who will shame you.”
Lydia glanced over at the woman who was attending the group for the first time. She was a lovely woman with doe eyes and pouting lips, and Lydia found it strange that a woman like her would attend such a meeting. However, who was she to place judgment on how a person enjoyed spending one’s time? Just because the woman was more than likely one who held the most names on her dance card did not mean she did not enjoy a healthy discussion.
“Thank you,” Miss Violet said shyly. “I am unsure as to what I believe at this moment; I shall need more time to consider the points already made before drawing a conclusion.” Everyone in the room had been in Miss Violet’s position—the new member to the group—so she received smiles of encouragement from the others.
Lydia considered the question, as well. Did true love exist? Helen had told her numerous times that Lydia’s parents had loved one another dearly, yet Lydia had not experienced such an emotion, not as a woman would share with a man. She loved her father as a daughter would, and she loved Helen, who had somewhat taken the place of her mother after her death. Yet, to experience true love? As of yet, she had not encountered such a feeling.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Mr. Jenkins, a man in his late twenties who was sitting beside Lydia, spoke. “I believe that true love does exist,” he stated firmly. “When my Mary greets me after a long day at work, or when we sit together by the river and speak of our dreams and she smiles at me, I believe that is true love.”
“Yet, can you not do the same with a friend?” Mr. Lancing replied. “How would that be any different than, let’s say, if you shared those same experiences with a trusted friend as well as your wife?”
“The difference is that I desire a pint with Matthew the Baker, but not to kiss him.” This drew a roar of laughter from the other attendees as the man gave a wide grin.
Lydia shook her head. She had first come to know of the meetings of those who wanted to discuss philosophy while visiting Mr. Jenkin’s shop. He had been whispering with Mr. Poppings, the owner of the shop next door, attempting to get the man to attend, as well.
“I apologize for eavesdropping,” Lydia had said when she got the courage to ask, “but I could not help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Poppings.”
“Yes?” the man said, though he appeared wary.
“Did I hear you say that men and women attend these meetings?”
The man swallowed hard. “I…well, yes, you did.” His face turned a bright red; clearly, he had not meant to have anyone else overhear. “I’m afraid they are secret, My Lady.”
“I promise I will tell no one,” she said adamantly
. “I have an interest in such things and would be honored at the chance to attend.”
The man had sighed heavily. “I can’t see why it would be a problem,” he had said before writing the address on a piece of paper. “But don’t tell Mr. Lancing it was me who sent you.”
Lydia had taken the paper and placed it in her reticule with reverence. “I am indebted,” she said with a smile.
“Just see you don’t tell anyone else.”
Upon returning home, Lydia had convinced Helen to accompany her, and much to her surprise, the woman had readily agreed.
“I have always wanted to attend a meeting like this,” she had said eagerly.
That had been during the previous Season, and Mr. Lancing had welcomed Lydia and Helen to the group with an easy friendliness despite the fact they were women. The number of attendees varied from week to week, ranging from three to as many as a dozen, but Lydia was allowed the opportunity to voice her opinions without the fear of ridicule while at the same time receiving perspectives different from her own.
Summoning her courage, something she found easier to do the more she attended these meetings, Lydia said, “I believe the question is a riddle.” Her voice was just above a whisper; perhaps her courage was not as strong as it could have been.
This drew a smile from Mr. Lancing. “A riddle, you say?” He leaned forward in his seat. “Very well, Miss Lydia, I would like to know more.”
Lydia glanced at Helen, who gave her an encouraging smile. Her eyes went around the circle of attendees, and she scolded herself for being so timid. These were her friends. They, unlike the rest of society, had never ridiculed her or made her feel less than she was for her opinions. As a matter of fact, they encouraged differing ideas. Mr. Lancing always said, ‘To have a better understanding of one’s own beliefs, one must know the counter-beliefs. Otherwise, one is simply stubborn rather than astute.’
“How does one know what exists if they do not know it?” she said. Then she shook her head; even her own words were unclear. “What I mean to say is, I cannot say for certain if true love exists, for I have never encountered it myself.” She turned to Mr. Jenkins. “However, you feel it, for you see it in your wife’s smile.”
Waltz 0f The Wallflower (Delicate Hearts Book 1) Page 6
