The Chaperone's Secret

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Mr. Lance quickly retreated into the shop with a deep bow and a murmured request that the ladies enter when they so desired.

  Pierson bowed and said, “Excuse me, my lady, you must forgive me, but in this unusual circumstance I feel it may be considered appropriate if I introduce myself. I am Viscount Pierson, and this,” he said, waving his hand toward his friend, who approached the group, “is the marquess, Lord Bainbridge.”

  Lady Rowena handed the cat over to her companion and curtseyed prettily, giving him her hand. “I am Lady Rowena Revington and this is my companion, Miss Amy Corbett. Thank you, my lord, for rescuing poor . . . poor, uh, Puss.”

  Amy, wide-eyed, watched the exchange, gladly taking the cat, which was being rather strangled in Rowena’s iron grip. The viscount’s friend was grinning, his gray eyes dancing with some hidden merriment, but the viscount was clearly smitten by Lady Rowena’s beauty, as what man was not? There was something almost familiar about the fellow, Amy thought, examining him. He was of medium height, dark brown hair swept back from a high forehead, and he had the most intriguing golden brown eyes she had ever seen. His voice was husky and she loved the sound of it, as he spoke to Lady Rowena.

  She stroked the cat in her arms and watched his face. Perhaps she had seen him at one of the balls they had attended, but she didn’t think so, for she would remember him in that circumstance, she was sure. He had completely misread the situation, of course, but it was a testament to his soft heart that he had dashed over like that to rescue what he thought was Rowena’s pet. Of course, in truth, Rowena had almost tripped on the cat and had been shrieking at it in annoyance when the shopkeeper, mindful that the lady was an excellent customer, began to beat at the cat to shoo it away from her feet.

  It must have looked very different from across the street. Was that what Lord Pierson’s friend was so merry about? Had he guessed the truth? She met his gaze and he raised his eyebrows and stared down at the cat in her arms.

  “The cat appears happier in your arms than in my lady’s,” he murmured, leaning toward her.

  Amy thought it politic to remain silent.

  Conversation had ground to a halt, with Lord Pierson staring in rapt fascination at Lady Rowena and the lady blushing and staring in modest confusion down at the stone step.

  Lord Bainbridge cleared his throat. “I think we should let the ladies get on with their task, Pierson,” he said finally.

  “Uh, yes,” he said. “My lady, I crave a proper introduction; this was too hasty and too indecorous. Will I see you at the Livington ball tonight, that we may be properly introduced?”

  “Oh, no, my lord,” she murmured, her voice sweet and low-toned. “My father would never countenance the Livington ball, for it is a masquerade, and the family is not one . . . not one we visit. But we do go to the Parkinson ball. Will we, mayhap, see you there?”

  Pierson swallowed. Amy watched him and wondered at his hesitation.

  “If it is at all possible, I will be there.”

  With a demure curtsey, Rowena swept into the shop, with Amy trailing behind.

  Six

  Once inside the cluttered shop, Rowena clapped her hands together and gave a happy little hop, her skirt flouncing prettily. “Lord Pierson. Oh, this is too rich! How papa would storm if he knew about this!”

  “Why?” Amy asked, taking a chair near the door and stroking the purring cat as it settled on her lap.

  The younger lady paced to the window and looked out, watching the men retreat, Amy guessed, though that was hardly ladylike.

  “Because,” Rowena said as she whirled, her pale green skirts belling out around her with her graceful movement. “Lord Pierson is the most renowned rogue and rake among the London ton. He has been whispered about among my acquaintances—those few who have seen him, for he is not welcome in most houses—as having an unconquerable heart. Many a young lady has tried to entice him into love, only to be rebuffed. He is accounted dark and dangerous!” She clasped her hands to her heart in a dramatic pose.

  Amy frowned down at the floor and rubbed at a minuscule spot with the toe of her shoe. “Dark and dangerous? If he is so renowned as being a rake and is not welcome in most houses, then how have young ladies been in his company to make the attempt to entice him into love? That doesn’t make any sense to me. And truly, he does not seem so dark, nor so very dangerous to me.”

  Lady Rowena waved her hands, pushing away Amy’s objections. “If that is so, my dear Amy,” she crowed, her tone gay, “that he appeared so lacking in menace, it is because he looked most taken with me! The man positively stared as if he wished to collapse at my feet in adoration!”

  Amy could not deny that allegation. He was smitten, as what man was not when faced with Lady Rowena’s spectacular beauty? As for Pierson’s fearsome reputation, it must be a mistake. It was clear he was good and kind and compassionate, to rescue a cat! And, though she set little store in appearance, he was quite the most handsome man she had ever in her life seen, with those brilliant gold eyes.

  “I hope he comes to the Parkinson ball. Won’t Olivia,” Rowena said, naming her best friend, “be pea green with envy, that I have captured the attention of the most notorious rake of the ton!”

  Amy felt a spurt of something close to jealous anger that Lady Rowena should take so lightly the regard of every man she came close to. All of them fell at her feet like ripe pears, unable to resist the power of her beauty. And yet she cast them aside, and would likely do the same to Pierson once assured of his undying devotion.

  As Mr. Lance bustled forward and sent Lady Rowena away to inspect the latest batch of furbelows for hats, Amy curled up in the hard chair cradling the cat and thought about the man she had only seen for a moment, but who had affected her heart in such a very strange way. She felt a stirring of emotion, an unfamiliar quiver in her untouched heart. She had for so long in her life concentrated solely on self-preservation. Even now, she knew that any moment she could be tossed out of the duke’s home if he had an impulse to do so, or if Rowena convinced him to. And yet, instead of planning her precarious future, should that happen, she was mooning like a green girl over the charms of a handsome stranger.

  The cat stretched and purred, luxuriously happy in Amy’s arms. She stroked its silky head and sighed. She must eradicate such strange longings as her admiration for Lord Pierson from her breast, before they took root and led to the kind of dissatisfaction with her lot that had been the downfall of many a lady in her position. It seemed to her, in her experience, that somebody who had to make their own way in the world was best looking at things in the cold, hard light of reality. No lady’s companion or chaperone ever found a fairy-tale prince to rescue her, least of all a nonentity like herself. So she would bid her mind’s image of the too-handsome Lord Pierson to be gone, like so much smoke, wafting away on the spring breeze.

  And that was that.

  She stroked the richly purring cat and cuddled it closer, burying her fingers in its soft fur. “You are the closest thing to a boon companion I shall have, I think, Puss,” she whispered, “and I’ll be satisfied with that. We will make our own way in the world, no matter what. I know I can rely on myself, and no one else.”

  • • •

  “So, Pierson, are you going to remind Lady Rowena of where she saw you first?” Bainbridge said with suppressed laughter in his voice as they walked on toward their destination.

  “No!” Pierson shuddered in revulsion at the memory. “Of course not, simpleton, I’m just happy she doesn’t remember me from that night or I would die of shame on the spot. I’ll tell her that story when we are married ten years, and not a moment before.” Pierson dashed across a street between carriages, and Bainbridge followed him.

  “And how do you propose to capture your fair one, now that you have met her?” the marquess asked, gasping and out of breath. He stopped and put one hand against the stone corner of a building. “I must take up fencing again; I have quite fallen out of sporting shape, I th
ink.” He breathed deeply and slowly recovered. “Anyway, you are not welcome in most ballrooms, nor drawing rooms, nor parlors, and certainly not the Parkinson ball, where m’lady will be tonight. There were a couple of incidents, if you remember, that put you on a list I am sure someone keeps, of gentlemen not welcome in polite homes. In the last ten years you have created a fearsome reputation, my friend, and now must defeat it.”

  Gloomily, Pierson shrugged and scuffed his boot on the paving stones. “How well I know it. I think the gallop through Lady Decker’s Venetian breakfast three years ago was the topper to all of my previous revels. I was quite drunk and don’t remember anything but Rupert being summoned to take me home and his disgust of me. I know I have a number of obstacles to surmount in my quest for the hand of the fair Lady Rowena. My black reputation is only one of them, though. I must have a plan for reclaiming my estate, as well as my name. But one thing at a time. Once assured of her devotion I can ask her to wait for a year, to give me time to bring Delacorte up to some condition worthy of receiving a bride.”

  Bainbridge squared his shoulders, having caught his breath, and gazed at him steadily. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Deadly serious, my friend. And you must help me. Your character in this city is very good—”

  “Only because I have taken great care to never blacken it. It is through assiduous care on my part. I would never dishonor my family name as you have.” Bainbridge began to walk again, and they turned the corner onto St. James.

  Pierson grimaced. Sometimes Bain was a priggish devil. He would wish just once that the fellow would do something wild and unpredictable, but knew better than to ever think it. “I know, I know, through care on your part. But it is so good you could squander a little of it, letting your reflected glow rub off on me, couldn’t you? If you helped me get into the Parkinson ball tonight and were to begin to put it about that I am a changed man, some of the matrons may believe you.” Pierson stopped at the bottom of the steps up to their club and watched his friend, an appealing expression on his face. “Please, Bain, it’s important to me.”

  “Perhaps I could do something,” Bainbridge said, doubt in his voice, “but Lady Rowena’s sire is the Duke of Sylverton. That man’s temper is estimated as one shade darker than old Nick’s. An invitation to a ball is one thing, but do you honestly think he will allow you anywhere near to her?”

  “But he won’t be at the Parkinsons’, will he? I have heard he never attends frivolities. And the companion, she seemed a mild enough girl.”

  “Oh, you even noticed there was someone other than Lady Rowena there?” Bainbridge said. “I’m surprised. Poor child doesn’t even look old enough to be a chaperone, but that is what I must conclude she is. I have seen the pair together at every ball Lady Rowena has attended this Season. She must have replaced the squinty old dragon the young lady was afflicted with last year.”

  “Well, you see then,” Pierson said as they climbed the steps and entered into the hushed, smoky enclave of their gentleman’s club, the one place in which the viscount had taken great care never to blot his copybook. “You charm the companion, and I shall sweep Lady Rowena off her feet. And so I will attain my heart’s desire.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, old man, but you do intend only honor to the young lady, do you not?”

  Pierson drew up at those words. He stared at Bainbridge and in disgust said, “How can you even say that, Bain?” Realizing his voice was too loud for the quiet club, he lowered his tone and said, furious, “I should call you out for that slur! When have I ever been a debaucher of innocents?”

  “Never, my friend,” the marquess said, clapping his hand on the viscount’s shoulder. “Calm yourself; I apologize. But since you do not go about in good society, you may not be aware of how black your reputation really is. I am afraid you are something of a legend among the young ladies, more for what you are rumored to have done than any of your actual dissipations. Don’t know how these rumors start, but they are rampant. Your name is a byword among the chaperones and a thrill to the maidens.”

  “I know it will be an uphill battle,” Pierson said. “But armed with your help, I shall make the charge.”

  “Feel like I’m at Waterloo, with such martial language.”

  They strolled together into the largest of the reading rooms, a wood-paneled haven with ironed papers folded neatly on tables for the members’ perusal.

  “I’m well aware that this will be a battle,” Pierson answered, his tone grim. “But I’m prepared, and watchful for opportunity. If I can only attract her, attach her, show her how very much she means to me, then the rest will follow, I’m sure of it.”

  “Why this one? Why Lady Rowena?” Bainbridge said, watching his friend’s face.

  They chose two chairs separated by a table; a discreet waiter asked their preference. The marquess requested brandy, but Pierson took a deep breath and said, “Nothing for me.”

  There was silence for a moment as the waiter retreated, and then Pierson tried to answer his friend’s question. “Why Lady Rowena? I’m not sure, but when I saw her face, I just knew. I knew because I wanted to be better for her. I wanted to change my ways . . . for her. I wanted to reclaim my inheritance. All for her.”

  Bainbridge sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers before his face and said, “I must say, I am worried for you. I have been hoping something would happen to inspire you to make a change, but my concern is, what if you are not successful in your suit? Her father is devilishly difficult. And then, by an enormous leap of the imagination, if you do manage to attach the lady, and the father is amenable—and that all is improbable in the extreme, not to be discouraging—what if she is not what you think? After all that effort, what if she turns out to be some insipid, spoiled, idiotic child?”

  Pierson, shocked, said, “Don’t even suggest that! What could she be that would be less than what she appears? You saw her today; she is an angel, demure, sweet-natured, modest—”

  “Yes, yes . . . a veritable angel,” Bainbridge said as the waiter brought his brandy. “I’m sure she is all that is heavenly.”

  “You’re being sarcastic, Bain, but I swear, you can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice.”

  “But remember my mother’s condemnation of her, Pierson. What if she should be right and the girl is not at all what she seems, but is a beau-thief and flirt?”

  “Do you believe that? If I remember, even your sister—and Lady Harriet must be judged impartial in this instance since it was her beau who was supposedly stolen—contends there was no thievery on the lady’s part, just a preference on Shrewsbury’s. And who could blame the man?” Pensively, Pierson added, “She has the look of heaven about her.”

  “She certainly appears to be a modest, lovely, perfectly innocent young maiden.”

  “And what more does a man need? A wife should come to you largely unformed, my friend, for we men are so set in our ways a lady will need to adjust herself to our eccentricities. So it is better if she is young and willing to be molded.” Pierson nodded at his own logic and stretched in the chair. “Yes, all I ask is a sweetness of disposition and mildness of temper, and together we’ll make our marriage work.”

  Bain snorted, guffawed and then roared with laughter.

  “What is wrong with you?” Pierson asked. Bainbridge was acting most strange, for he had certainly said nothing to inspire such a fit of laughter.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me, but really, old man, you have the oddest ideas of marriage! Where did they come from?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. But it is what society says, is it not? Young ladies are untaught for that very reason. If a man is to be the head of the household then he must take a wife who will look to him for instruction and molding.”

  “Trust me, my friend, if you had witnessed marriage firsthand, as I did with my mother and father, you would have seen no such relationship as you describe. Unformed! You make a young lady sound as if she is a lump of cl
ay. Do you not think that women have thoughts and ideas and opinions?”

  “I had thought that was the philosophy behind keeping them largely untaught. Then what do you think of Lady Rowena? She seems so . . . so untouched.”

  Bainbridge rubbed the arm of the chair. “I don’t know. I cannot credit my mother’s opinion, that she is a flirt and a beau-thief, and yet there seems something more to her than just a blank slate. Don’t think ladies are untaught, Pierson. First, untaught does not mean unlearned; just look at Harriet. A more opinionated lady there never has been. I was a decent student in the languages, but truly, she reads widely and knows more Italian and French than I do, and almost as much Greek and Latin. I should be ashamed I suppose, but really, keeping up with my witty and far-too-intelligent sister would have been impossible. And then, Pierson, they are taught . . . taught how to attract a husband. Dangerous information in the wrong hands.” He fell silent, but then said, “What think you of the companion?”

  Pierson shrugged, struggling to recall her face. “She was . . . young?”

  “I’m surprised you even noticed that much, your gaze was so fixed on the fair Rowena. She was also remarkably pretty for a chaperone. I’m interested enough to find out more about Miss Corbett. My mother may know something. Or better, Harriet. As you noted, she is more even in her judgments than Mother.”

  “So, back to the topic,” Pierson said, impatient with his friend’s deviation from the object of his interest. Who would notice the chaperone when faced with Lady Rowena? “Can you procure for me an invitation to the Parkinson ball?”

  Bainbridge nodded slowly. “I will. It should not pose too much of a problem, actually, since Lord Parkinson is my godfather. But I rely on you to behave and not disgrace me.”