The Chaperone's Secret

by Donna Lea Simpson

  On his way out he startled a maid by whistling, and tipped his hat to her with a smile. His groom was waiting with his ancient carriage and hired horses; the carriage was seldom used in the tight confines of London streets. He frowned to see that it looked shabby in the brilliant light of a sunny spring afternoon. He should have it refitted but couldn’t afford to. Would Lady Rowena notice? He hoped not.

  He pulled up to the ducal manse and his cheery self-confidence took another blow. Lord, but it was a splendid house! Tall and regal, made of spotless pale gray granite, with marbles steps that shone in the sun, it was fronted by a black wrought iron fence and gate. Urns of flowers adorned the steps up to the house, where a gleaming brass knocker as big as a turnip glinted.

  Pierson jumped down from his carriage as his groom raced lightly up the steps to employ the knocker for him. A tall, sturdy butler dressed immaculately in dark green livery bowed and offered to show Lord Pierson in. Lady Rowena would be down in just a moment.

  He was ushered into the great hall, an echoing high-ceilinged chamber lined with marble statuary and more Grecian urns. The duke’s coat of arms worked in marble mosaic was the central motif on the floor, and the theme was repeated in paint over the doorways and in the banners that lined the upper gallery. It was a very grand house, designed to impress and intimidate. The design was working.

  What in God’s name did he have to offer a lady from this home, his worthless name, dragged through the mud of at least three successive generations of degenerates? An estate stripped of every item of worth except a few tired paintings and dirty, antiquated gems? His own useless self, steeped in alcohol, with no skills other than at cards?

  Lady Rowena Revington, youngest and no doubt most cherished child of the eminent Duke of Sylverton, could have any man, including one of the royal dukes. Why would she ever deign to marry a lowly viscount with not a groat to his name? His sigh echoed off the high ceiling and whispered in the gallery. A door closed somewhere and a maid scuttled above from one door to another. A footman carried a massive silver epergne through the great hall.

  Just as he was feeling at his lowest, from above came the sound of soft shoes on the marble floor and the object of his feverish affections appeared at the top of the stairs, trailed by her chaperone. Lady Rowena Revington, fairest flower of the London Season, was adorned in a pale pink gown with a moss green pelisse over it; she appeared as a tender rosebud would, still clothed in a mantle of spring green. From the top of her head, her lovely silver hair adorned by a saucy bonnet and pink plumes, to the tips of her toes, shod in pink leather slippers embroidered in silver accents, she was a vision.

  And he was breathless and speechless.

  Finally he found his voice as she stood, blushing and with downcast eyes, before him. “Lady Rowena, you do me so much honor I am . . . I am breathless with wonder.”

  “Shall we go, my lord?” came another voice.

  It was Miss Corbett, whom he had not noticed was standing there as well, and she gazed at him steadily.

  “Are . . . are you to join us, Miss Corbett?” he asked, eyeing her bonnet and plain gray spencer.

  “I am, Lord Pierson. I thought that was understood?”

  He sighed. Ah well; slowly. He must be prepared to woo slowly such an infinitely valuable treasure as Lady Rowena Revington. If he was to be so fortunate as to make her his bride, he must know it would be a great effort. “Then my pleasure in the ride is doubled,” he gallantly said and bowed, sweeping one hand toward the door. “Shall we go? It is a lovely day, and the park awaits.”

  Twelve

  The first part of the ride was accomplished in silence, if a ride through the London streets at the height of the Season and in lovely weather could ever be called silent. The din precluded much in the way of conversation anyway: wheels of the open carriage clacked as the hooves of the horses clopped; drivers swore at each other over close calls on the narrow streets, disputing whose fault it was; children screeched, hawkers yelled and horses whinnied and neighed. There was no end to the noise and dust of the street, and it was a relief, Amy thought, when they finally reached the park. It was crowded, but at least the pace was slow. She breathed deeply and more free, having green space around her just beyond the fringe of the crowded walkways and lanes of Hyde Park at the perfect hour for promenading.

  She had been reliving, on their silent journey, the humiliation of knowing how little she was wanted as a companion, judging by Lord Pierson’s evident disappointment when he found she was to accompany them. He should have expected it. He was only recently, it appeared, trying to mend his soiled reputation. She would not even allow him near Lady Rowena if it were not for the fact that the young lady seemed to fancy him, and any acceptable beau was to be welcomed, even one with a shady reputation. But Amy was not going to abdicate responsibility so easily, for she would not just hand Rowena over to the man if she decided he was in any way vicious or unprincipled.

  He and Rowena were chatting over the side of the carriage with a mutual acquaintance in another carriage for the nonce. Amy examined Lord Pierson. He looked familiar somehow, still. Or perhaps it was just that if she was to design the perfect gentleman to her own taste, it would be him.

  She had seen many men in her weeks immersed in the London Season so far. Handsome and plain, tall and short, thin and fat and in between. And so, though the physical was only one small part of a man, she knew, it amused her, during the boredom of a chaperone’s role at the balls, to design her own ideal gentleman.

  Short herself, she did not want a gentleman to tower over her, so a man of medium height would be fine. And she rather found the men of a darker cast to be attractive. Black or brown hair and darker of complexion. Lord Pierson embodied those characteristics. His hair was a dark chocolate brown and curled on its own, it seemed, and his skin was rich-toned, as if there was a gypsy ancestor somewhere in his background.

  He was smiling and describing something to Rowena that was making her and the lady in the other carriage smile, and he used his hands as he spoke. That was another thing she found attractive, she mused. He had an eagerness of spirit that bespoke a warm heart. She had seen so many gentlemen—and ladies too, for it was a fashionable attribute—with such a lassitude of personality that it was difficult, sometimes, to tell if they were even truly awake. There were many more who were like Lord Bainbridge, cynical and cool of temperament, amused onlookers rather than participants in the grand spectacle of life.

  But Lord Pierson . . . he was a different sort altogether, and instinctively she knew he was warm of heart and impetuous of spirit, engaged in life even when it let him down. It could be accounted a fault if it led him into trouble, but it could also be considered a valuable attribute to someone—someone like her—who had lived such a careful and tedious life. What would she give to be loved by someone who would make her smile, who would take her hand and lead her down joyful paths?

  At that very moment he was describing some grand prank he had only recently been involved in. Vivid and eager, his brown eyes sparkled with joy as the two ladies laughed.

  Rowena actually laughed.

  Amy’s gaze turned to her charge and she watched the duke’s beautiful daughter, her expression lively and her laughter ringing out in the clear spring air. Pierson was staring at her, his mouth open and longing on his face.

  How could they not fall in love with each other, Amy thought, with so much happy infatuation on his side, and such self-absorbed determination on hers to capture him? She knew she should be dancing with happiness; Rowena appeared to be genuinely taken with Lord Pierson, and he was clearly enamored of her. Amy knew that once Rowena decided to marry, it would not be a matter of if but when the marriage would take place, no matter how unsuitable some might consider her beau.

  Such an outcome must be the best of all possible endings for herself. Once Lady Rowena and Lord Pierson had plighted their troth and published their intentions, she, Amy Corbett, would be in possession of a fortune, or
what passed for a fortune in her mind. And then she could go back to her village, buy her tiny cottage near her Aunt Marabelle and live quietly, taking in sewing when the money began to dwindle. They would all have what would make them happy.

  So why did that future seem so bleak now?

  • • •

  “I tell you,” Pierson said, much later in the day, “Lady Rowena is exactly what she appears, Bain, a lovely, unassuming, well-bred lady, mild of temperament, gentle . . . everything that is perfection.”

  Bainbridge examined his enthusiastic friend, noting the flush on his cheeks and the hectic glitter in his eyes. “Have you been drinking, Pierson?”

  They sat in a quiet room at their club, where Bainbridge hoped to catch a friend of his before that fellow went on to his evening’s pursuits.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I had some wine with dinner, that’s all.” Pierson’s tone was indignant. “Everybody drinks wine; what would you have me drink, water? That’s hardly healthful.”

  Abandoning his censorious tone, Bainbridge commented, “It seems you must have had a delightful afternoon, then, eh? With the two ladies?”

  “Two . . . oh, yes, Miss Corbett accompanied us.”

  “She seems a very good sort of young lady, if a little young and delicate for the role of chaperone, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose.” Pierson squinted through the gloom to the doorway. “Hello, there is old Carver. Remember him from school? Haven’t seen him in an age. I’m just going to say hello for a moment, Bain; I’ll be right back.”

  Bainbridge watched him lope across the room and greet their mutual acquaintance, a fellow now portly from too much good wine and food. Watching the two together talking, the portly Carver and slim, eager Pierson, Bainbridge considered his friend and what he knew of him both from fact and by instinct.

  Dante Delacorte Pierson had been raised the way they all had been raised, the expectant sons of wealth and privilege, educated at the right schools, intimate with the right set of other young men. They were both Oxford men, brought together in friendship by the various miseries of poor food, lack of desire for learning and inadequate quarterly allowances.

  But when Pierson was just eighteen his father died in embarrassing circumstances, the habitué of an opium den, and Pierson became the holder of the title. He had left school and embarked on a series of adventures envied by his former classmates, quickly becoming legendary for his exploits. Of course, once the rest of them had graduated and joined his London set, it had all quickly become too familiar and Pierson, at first their guide in the usual depravities of young London men, was just another wastrel with no goals and little real motivation to do anything at all other than drink, gamble and trade expensive mistresses with other like-minded young men.

  But there was more to Pierson, and it was that more that had made Bainbridge his firm friend. For all his troubles—and Bainbridge well knew his financial worries and had remonstrated with him too many times about mending his fortunes—Pierson had an optimistic, romantic view of life that was attractive to a cynic such as himself. Just being in the other man’s company made Bainbridge long for things he knew he would never have with his own tired fatalism. He had often wondered what it would be like to be his mercurial friend, but they were so different he could not even imagine and gave up the futile exercise every time.

  Pierson would do anything for those he loved, and so Bainbridge had, for the last couple of years, suspected that falling in love with the right kind of young lady would be the making of the viscount. He was one of those who needed an object, a purpose in life before he could settle down to the toil of recovering his estate. Perhaps it was not admirable; perhaps he should have, with his intelligence and abilities, been willing to immure himself at Delacorte and settle down to the business of building his holdings back up with no incentive other than family honor. But if Bainbridge had learned anything in his life it was that humans were all different. His friend would eventually do the right thing. With his loving heart, though, he needed an object, some lady who would inspire him to do right.

  The question remained, though: was Lady Rowena Revington, spoiled daughter of privilege, the right one? Bainbridge doubted it and further, suspected she was about as much the wrong lady as there could be on the face of the earth. The woman who married Pierson would have to have the internal fortitude to make do with little in the way of material comforts. Lady Rowena had money, but Bainbridge knew Pierson too well to think that he would use all his wife’s money to improve his inherited estate. Many men did so, and since it was for the betterment of their children’s inheritance there was a certain justice in the practice, but the viscount was of a chivalrous cast and would protect his wife’s money before even paying for improvements to their home. He would be ashamed to take money from her dowry, ashamed of looking like a fortune hunter.

  Though it would seem an heiress of Lady Rowena’s status would be a great boon to Pierson, the opposite was likely true; he must marry a lady who would not care about material discomfort for a few years, one who was frugal by nature and who did not need expensive trinkets, trips or costly friends to make her happy and content.

  Could Lady Rowena give up her status, her London Seasons, her expensive yearly wardrobe, for the love of a warmhearted man? Bainbridge was afraid she was not, but equally as afraid that it was already too late; with his warmth of heart and impetuous nature, Pierson had fallen in love and would never be happy without the object of his desires. He glanced over at Pierson, who was talking to their old school friend, waving his hands, telling some long, involved story.

  Pierson had completely overlooked the perfect young lady for him; modest, pretty, mild of temperament but firm of character. She was right in front of him eating her heart out for him. Bainbridge had seen all the signs. Miss Amy Corbett, an odd choice as companion and chaperone to Lady Rowena Revington, for she seemed gentle, retiring, sweet-tempered and good-natured, was fascinated by and attracted to Pierson. She became flustered and distracted in his presence, and there was a longing in her eyes she could not possibly know was so very stark and visible. She was the one more like Pierson’s described ideal of a lady, pretty and mild, kindhearted.

  No doubt Lady Rowena had her completely wrapped around her little finger, unable to exert any control over the headstrong duke’s daughter. Or was he misreading the beauteous Lady Rowena? He had made some assumptions based on his own observations, but perhaps . . . Bainbridge stopped his restless tap-tap-tapping of the table leg, arrested by a plan that had crept into his brain earlier that day.

  He wanted to know Lady Rowena’s true nature and felt it would be beneficial for Pierson to see it too, if it had a negative side she was concealing. Pierson clapped Carver on the shoulder and turned to stride back to their chairs. The results of his plot would satisfy his own curiosity, too, and ease his worry that his friend might be walking into a serious commitment to a lady who was exactly wrong for him.

  And it could be fun. Pierson would thank him someday. Indeed, Bainbridge might be able to set his scheme in motion that very night, if things went the way he had planned.

  Marcus Fallstone, an old friend of his and the lover of a very wealthy, well-titled lady of great respectability, entered the room and followed Pierson to Bainbridge. “Hello, fellows. Good news. My little buttercup says of course you are both invited to her ball, and if that stuffy old butler of hers says nay, then you are to tell him that the mistress especially desires your company, or some such rubbish. She’ll make it right, though, before the evening.”

  Bainbridge stood and took his hand, wringing it with gratitude. “What a good friend you are, Fallstone! Your lady friend and my mother are great enemies, and as a result even I have been banned from her invitation list.”

  “Well, poof, you are back on it,” Fallstone said, waving his hand in a magic gesture.

  “Thank you, old man,” Pierson said and stuck his hand out. “I shall be forever in your debt.”

>   “Oh, likely not. My little buttercup will not want her bumblebee forever,” Fallstone said with a wry twist to his lips. “And when she decides she don’t want me anymore, I shall have to make shift like the rest of you, or at least the rest that ain’t as rich as old Bainbridge, here. Then I shall very much need the kindness of my friends.”

  “And so speaks the pet of a very wealthy woman,” Bainbridge laughed.

  “It is only a matter of time, Bain, truly,” Fallstone said mournfully, then pulled a funny face. “I ain’t got brains like you do, and I ain’t charming, nor near as good-looking as Pierson here, so she is sure to move on to greener pastures to graze. But for the nonce I amuse her with my youthful frame and joie de vivre, so I shall make merry while the sun shines and think of darker days another time,” he said with a cheery wave as he moved away from them. “Hey there, you,” he said loudly to a waiter. “Brandy, man, and make it quick. I am perishing for a drink.”

  Bainbridge turned to Pierson. “So, we are invited to the Earl of Larkhurst’s ball tonight, where Lady Rowena, accompanied by her chaperone, shall be awaiting your attendance.”

  “Excellent,” Pierson said, rubbing his hands together in glee. “I suppose I should go home and give Rupert enough time to make me over into something worthy of the lady.”

  Bainbridge watched him exit the club and pondered his plan. Should he go through with it? Was there any danger? He didn’t think so. If Lady Rowena was the sweet-natured, good-tempered, amiable young lady she appeared then there could not possibly be any harm done to anyone.

  And if not . . . well, it was much better for Pierson to find that out before he was irrevocably committed.

  Thirteen

  Yet another ball to attend that evening, this one at the home of the Earl of Larkhurst. Amy was tired to death of balls and all the attendant fuss and bother of getting ready for them. It was relentless, the pressure to be there, to be perfectly coifed, dressed and comported. And yet Lady Rowena did it effortlessly. But then she was born to it, and thrived in the hothouse atmosphere like an orchid.