The Chaperone's Secret

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “Opinions I do not mind, I suppose, but ridicule is another thing. And Lady Harriet is just a little too swift to make a fellow feel as though he has just misspoke.”

  “Are you so unsure of your opinions, then?”

  Lord Pierson smiled and Amy felt her heart thump.

  “Not at all, but a fellow does say the occasional thing he would rather not have to defend. I sometimes talk nonsense. Do you not do so?”

  “On occasion, I suppose.”

  “Well, Lady Harriet has never said nor done a foolish thing in her life and it is unnerving.” He stood, pulled a chair close to her and took a seat. “She will require a paragon before she will marry, I say.”

  “I think most ladies would not mind a man who spoke foolishness to her once in a while if he truly cared for her. That makes up for much.”

  “Do you think so?”

  Lord Pierson was gazing at her steadily, and Amy felt herself flush. “No person, man or woman, is without folly. There are more important attributes than great wisdom.”

  “Yes, like wealth.”

  Amy watched his face, his golden eyes and brooding expression. “Some may think wealth vital, but I don’t think, beyond a competence—I’m not so foolish as to think one can do without money at all—it is so very important.” Her tone gentler, she added, “You cannot eat jewels, nor drink gold.”

  His gaze caught on hers and held. He was so close his warmth radiated through her thin gown and petticoats. Surely, she thought, someone could not seem so sincere and good-natured and be the rogue he was reputed to be?

  “Do you truly believe that, Miss Corbett?”

  “I beg pardon?” She had lost her train of thought, but swiftly recalled their conversation. “Oh, yes . . . I do. As one who has never been wealthy, I don’t think happiness is dependent upon such ephemeral things. I have seen a flower girl happy, just in the warmth of the sun and a fresh breeze. And I have seen a lord, with all his wealth and glory, wretched.” She plucked at the folds of her dress and thought of the duke, who never truly seemed happy. And she thought of the Donegals’ tumultuous, riotous home, where happiness permeated even the rafters, though they were not rich by any measure.

  Pierson was silent, his eyes searching hers. “I don’t think I ever believed that until this moment, that one could be truly happy without wealth. But you have a way, Miss Corbett, of convincing me.”

  Ten

  Whether she was trying to tell him subtly that his suit would not be dismissed if Lady Rowena should favor him, Pierson did not know, but he felt unaccountably jubilant of a sudden sitting with Miss Corbett and talking to her. Money didn’t matter. Life could be joyful without it.

  Or could it? It was all very well in theory, but the destitute unpaid serving staff of his estate and the tenant farmers could not do without money to feed themselves and their families. It was a new sensation, this feeling of responsibility, and it was unnerving. Worse than unnerving; it was deeply distressing.

  The music played and the dancers danced, and he gazed through it, seeing nothing. Instead he saw imploring faces, outstretched hands, barren land. What was going on at Delacorte? Would they ever track down Mr. Lincoln and the stolen money?

  Lord but he needed a drink!

  And yet he would not have one. He stiffened his spine and felt a hand on his arm. He glanced over to find Miss Corbett’s face a mask of concern.

  “Are you quite well, Lord Pierson?”

  Her gentle voice was soothing, her blue-gray eyes clouded with worry. “I am, Miss Corbett,” he said, wanting to reassure her. He remembered something she had said moments before. “You said you met Lady Harriet. That would have been at Lady Bainbridge’s literary tea the other day.”

  “Why yes.”

  So while he had been in an artist’s garret drawing up a poor likeness of his fair angel, she had been sitting in the drawing room of his best friend. If Bainbridge had obeyed his mother’s wish and attended the literary tea, and if Pierson had stayed with him, he would have seen her there. Of course he knew that she had been there, but somehow he hadn’t yet realized that at the exact minute he was trying to describe her for that artist fellow she was sitting in his friend’s drawing room.

  “Why do you smile and shake your head, my lord?”

  “Do you believe in fate, Miss Corbett?”

  She knit her brows. “If by fate you mean providence or divine intervention, I suppose I do.”

  “Well, so do I now. I am more sure than ever that the road I have set myself upon is the right one, guided, as you say, by divine intervention.”

  “However,” she added, eyeing him with a thoughtful expression on her pale face. “I think it is often man’s mistake to attribute to God whatever we please, and to call it divine intervention or providence when it is only chance and our own will.”

  She had no idea what he was thinking. How could she, when she didn’t even know about his first sighting of Lady Rowena, and the way his heart had taken flight, and now this proof that he was meant to meet her, if not by one chance, then by another. She was meant to be his savior, his inspiration, and to give him the strength and incentive to work and bring his estate back to where it should be.

  Miss Corbett could have no idea that his life’s path was now stretched out before him, a shining ribbon of hope winding through the green acres of Delacorte. He must cling to that hope.

  • • •

  Bainbridge watched from a distance as Pierson and the pretty chaperone bent their heads together, talking. He could see in her animated expression and the way her eyes followed his movements that she was fascinated by Pierson. She seemed a mild and intelligent young woman. Lady Rowena, too, seemed so. And yet it still struck him as odd that a young woman of such impeccable breeding, beauty, wit and wealth as Lady Rowena should be unwed.

  The lady in question was being walked, at the end of the dance, back to her chaperone. From a distance he could see the action like a pantomime. Pierson looked up at her approach and his gaze never left her again while she remained with them. Miss Corbett faded back and watched the couple, now engaged in conversation. Lady Rowena was perfectly demure yet seemed to accept Pierson’s devotion as her due, and that sat ill with Bainbridge. What he expected he did not know, but such absolute graceful recognition of Pierson’s ardor as her just desserts made him edgy.

  If she was attracted to him, should she not be more unsettled, more agitated? Did the calmness of her demeanor, as habitual as it seemed, bespeak an unfeeling heart? He had heard nothing ill of her, and yet his mind wasn’t satisfied. For now he would just watch and wait. Pierson was in the first stage of infatuation. There was little danger he would become officially engaged to her without a suitable period of courtship. His attentions might appear particular still for a while with no poor reflection on Lady Rowena’s reputation.

  So he would just watch and wait.

  • • •

  Amy didn’t need to see her charge herself to know Lady Rowena was on her way toward them. Lord Pierson’s attention shifted suddenly and was riveted on the approaching couple, and though Amy was speaking to him, he didn’t appear to hear her. This should be an encouraging sign, for hadn’t a wry novelist of recent years commented that rudeness was the first sign of an advanced state of love?

  And yet she couldn’t help but be offended. It didn’t seem fair that Lady Rowena, spoiled, rich and with every other advantage of face and fortune, should also have the ability to smite an otherwise sensible man dumb with love. Yet it did no good to rail against the way of the world. And in this one instance she should be grateful, not resentful, that men were attracted by a fair face.

  Lord Newton-Shrewsbury approached with Lady Rowena on his arm, returning her to her chaperone. The two men nodded a stark greeting, their antagonism toward each other like a scent on the air, and Pierson stood, bowed to Rowena and said, “This is my dance I believe, my lady.”

  “It is, my lord,” she answered, curtseying gracefully. The
pair made their way to the dance floor.

  “What would she want with that bounder?” Lord Newton-Shrewsbury said out loud.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord?” Amy said, piqued at being treated as invisible. It was the outside of enough.

  The gentleman whirled and bowed, his face coloring until even the tips of his ears were red. “Pardon, miss, just speaking to m’self, you know.”

  “I know,” Amy said pointedly, folding her hands on her lap and trying not to pull at a thread in her gloves in her agitation.

  “H’lo Norman,” Lord Bainbridge said, sauntering toward them. “Didn’t go on to the Duchess of Twylle’s ball with my sister, I see.”

  “Uh, no, Bainbridge, I, uh, had commitments here.”

  “Yes, I noted your commitment to Lady Rowena. Hear you met her at m’mother’s literary afternoon. With my sister.”

  Lord Newton-Shrewsbury reddened even deeper and bowed. With a murmured excuse he backed away and fled.

  “Ninny. I don’t know what my mother was thinking to imagine him half good enough for Harriet.”

  “What a devoted brother you are!” Amy commented.

  Bainbridge glanced down at her and chuckled. “How my mother would stare to hear me praised so. I do not do half what she would like me to on my sister’s behalf.”

  “Yet I imagine you do twice what many other brothers do,” Amy countered.

  “I like you, Miss Corbett. You are good for my battered feelings of self-worth.”

  Amy giggled and then hid her mouth behind her hand, glancing around at the other chaperones with alarm. It would not do to sound like a giddy girl. Mrs. Bower caught her eye and gave a significant look at the handsome marquess standing by her side. Amy shook her head and had no trouble assuming a more sober demeanor. She would certainly not mistake his kindness as anything more. And in truth, she had no wish for anything more than his kindness. She did not think she could ever return his regard if he felt for her anything warmer than friendship.

  He indicated a chair with a quizzical look.

  “Of course, my lord. Please sit.”

  He did not make the mistake of lounging again, but sat correctly, both black-leather-shod feet firmly on the marble parquet floor. “Lady Rowena is somewhat of a puzzle to me, Miss Corbett.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. She has every advantage of face and fortune, and yet has not married. You say it is because she is romantic and will only marry for true love, but for all the men dying of love for her these past three Seasons, you say there is not one for whom she felt any emotion at all? I am no idiot; I know there is a fashion among the young men to be expiring of unrequited love for every fair diamond of the Season. It’s this ridiculous culture of Byron’s poetry that is to blame. But still . . . not one of those young men appealed to her?”

  “You cannot expect me to comment on past years and Lady Rowena’s love or lack thereof when I was not here.”

  He cast her a sharp side look. “No, I suppose not,” he replied, reluctance in his tone. “That is the perfect evasive answer.”

  “I have nothing to hide, my lord.”

  “Ah, is that so? Then tell me, is Lady Rowena as perfectly demure and sweet-natured as she appears at every ball?”

  “Are any of us exactly what we appear to others? Are we to have no private foibles at all, then? Are you, my lord, always perfectly correct in dress, manner and, ahem, posture as you appear now?”

  “You answer a question with a question.”

  “And you answer a question with a comment.”

  “Routed. Very neatly routed. Ballroom manners dictate I not pursue the answer. But my curiosity is not sated, and so I’ll observe the beauteous Lady Rowena and her future behavior. You see, my friend Pierson is smitten, but not just any lady will do for him. He is far more romantic of nature than I, and he idealizes the ladies. It is a dangerous characteristic.”

  “He’s a man, my lord, and not a boy. Do you think him foolish?”

  “Not at all. Pierson is very intelligent or I would not be his friend, for I can’t abide a fool. Hence my distaste for Shrewsbury.”

  “Then you cannot intend to interfere in his life and decisions.”

  “Interfere in his life? No, of course not. Not at all.”

  What did he mean by that emphasis, she wondered, throwing a swift glance his way and catching a secretive smile on his lips. How strange it was, she thought, that with all of the attention he paid her and the conversation they shared and even the dance, it was still not his face and voice that moved her, but Lord Pierson’s. How incalculable were women, she sadly pondered, that self-interest could not inspire love. Mrs. Bower had been urging her, subtly, to make the most of her time with Lord Bainbridge, for stranger things had happened in the world than a lord falling in love with a chaperone. Amy knew that, but she could not be so self-serving.

  If by some miracle Lord Bainbridge decided he was desperately in love with the meek Miss Corbett and offered her his hand in marriage, what would she say? She suppressed a smile at the notion, for his behavior toward her, in her estimation, had been more like a friend than a lover. But if he did, what would she say? She supposed she would have to say yes. What kind of idiot would not, even if she did not care for him as a wife ought to care for her husband?

  The music played on. Lady Rowena and Lord Pierson whirled by, their eyes locked together.

  Her self-interest would best be served by promoting a match between her obstreperous charge and the handsomest gentleman in the ballroom that night. Lord Pierson could do worse than Rowena. She was spoiled and tempestuous and could on occasion be rude and thoughtless, but there was no real evil in her. And given how little time husbands and wives spent in each other’s company in the usual marriage, as far as Amy could glean from her brief time in the world of the ton, they should do just fine together.

  That was if Lord Pierson truly fell in love with her, and if Lady Rowena felt the same, and if the girl could come to see that marriage was in her own best interest. Amy sighed. It was only the beginning of the Season. She could hope for a miracle or two, but she didn’t know if they came by the gross.

  • • •

  “Your chaperone is so very young,” Pierson said as the last strains of the music sounded and the dance came to an end. “She looks so . . . so out of place sitting with the other ladies, all of them so much older and dressed in black. She looks like a flower against a field of ravens.”

  “How very fanciful, my lord,” Lady Rowena said, gracefully taking his arm as they strolled the perimeter of the ballroom back toward the bank of chairs set up for the chaperones and mothers of the closely guarded young ladies.

  “I suppose it is. But just look at her! She is so very pretty. Bainbridge seems taken with her, if you notice. They are deep in conversation. I wonder what about?” Lady Rowena’s fingers tightened on his arm and he glanced at her in concern, but no emotion marred the perfectly smooth forehead, silvery hair drawn back and clusters of curls drooping near her shell-pink ears.

  “I cannot imagine what they are speaking of,” she said. “But I suppose it is me.”

  Pierson, not sure how to respond to that, remained silent as they approached the chatting pair. Lady Rowena’s next partner was already waiting and whisked her away, though she gazed back a couple of times, Pierson noted with satisfaction. Perhaps he was making some headway after all, though it was impossible to tell with so well-bred a young lady as she.

  He turned his attention to his friend and Miss Corbett. It was true that she did not have the spectacular beauty of Lady Rowena, say, but Miss Corbett was a very pretty young woman, gowned in pearl gray and lace, her golden brown hair drawn back in a too-tight style that emphasized the perfect shape of her fine-boned oval face and how large her blue-gray eyes were.

  Was Bain truly taken with her? He had asked her to dance, and that was an outrageous thing to do, given her status.

  “Miss Corbett, your protégé does you credit. Lady
Rowena has delightful manners.”

  The young woman looked up at him, her expression unreadable. “I can hardly take credit, my lord, for anything about Lady Rowena, since I have been her chaperone only these last three months, and both her manners and her character were formed long before that.”

  Pierson sat down in a chair near the lady as his friend watched with an amused twist to his lips. “I had thought our character was set in the cradle.”

  “Life teaches us who we are and how we must be. Our position, our family, our experience; it all melds together to make us who we are.”

  “Are we then past learning, past improvement, once we reach the age of maturity?” It was a subject he had thought seriously on in the past days, and he was interested in her opinion.

  “Never, my lord. I think we are capable of change well into life, though folks seldom do once they become men and women.”

  “I would not have thought you so cynical,” Pierson said, catching a glint of sadness in her eyes that disturbed him.

  “Cynical? I don’t think myself cynical. I said seldom, not never, after all.”

  “Lady Rowena seems very intent on young Mardisham, doesn’t she?” Bainbridge airily observed, dangling his quizzing glass on its black ribbon and swinging it.

  Pierson looked up and saw the young lady in question float by, her expression unchanged since he last saw her. “She looks just the same, Bain. Whatever are you talking about?”

  “My mistake. Thought you might be interested, that is all.” He smirked.

  “I say, Bain, whatever is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing at all,” he said and stood, stretching his long legs. “Think I shall go and cause trouble elsewhere and let you and Miss Corbett discuss life and the ills of the world.”