Amy was more of a marigold, a meadow flower transported to the dirty, noisy city. She had to say there were some aspects she enjoyed; she loved the opera and the music recitals, and she had made a good friend in Mrs. Bower. Even the balls had their moments of interest for an observer of humankind. But the truth was there were those for whom the city was their natural milieu and those for whom it was not. She would place herself firmly among those for whom it was at best a treat to be taken in small doses.
The one good thing about the Season and its accompanying necessity to be dressed properly was that the duke, recognizing that she did not have a wardrobe vast enough for the depth of their social calendar, had allowed her a dress allowance in addition to her wage. Amy had furnished herself with gowns that would be, at a later date, convertible into wearable dresses that would last for years.
Rowena took all the hustle and bustle in stride and Amy envied her placidity about this one thing. She was very good at standing still for her maid and hairdresser for hours, if need be. They were presently in her room as her hairdresser coiled her platinum hair into an elaborate style incorporating a gorgeous strand of pearls that had a pinkish hue.
“It was a very enjoyable afternoon, riding in the park with Lord Pierson.”
“Yes,” Rowena said.
Amy paced behind the chair, watching the hairdresser, a graying woman with stooped shoulders, working. “Lord Pierson is very amusing.”
“Yes.”
Amy gritted her teeth. She wanted to establish how Rowena felt about the viscount, but one-syllable answers were not going to help. “Mrs. Bower said that he will not possibly be able to get an invitation to the Larkhurst ball this evening, because the countess is a stickler, very prim and proper. Lord Pierson’s reputation is too awful for her to allow him in her ballroom.”
“Really?” Rowena said. Her tone was still placid, but her eyes glittered in the candlelight, reflected in the mirror.
“Yes,” Amy said carefully, watching the reflected image of her charge’s lovely face. “What you told me of his notoriety appears to be true. He is not accepted in much of polite society, though there are those who say his foibles are in the past and he should be given a chance to prove himself.”
Rowena’s expression was unreadable, but she was certainly pondering something. Amy wished she understood the labyrinthine maze of Rowena’s mind, but she feared much of what the girl thought and felt would remain an enigma. And yet it seemed to Amy that one thing was clear: Rowena was attracted to Lord Pierson because of his terrible reputation, not in spite of it. Was that any healthy basis for a marriage?
Or . . . was Rowena just toying with Pierson hoping it would get back to her father and enrage him? Their complex relationship was a puzzle to Amy, for so much of their antagonism was buried in past interactions and long-established patterns of mutual disregard.
Amy sat on a nearby chair to bring herself eye to eye with the younger woman. She must try to be forthright with her charge, honest and open. Maybe someday the girl would trust her. “Rowena, you have not repeated in the last week your usual diatribe against marriage. Does that mean you have softened your stance? Have you begun to think about marriage in a different light?”
“No, of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?” she said, batting the hairdresser’s hands away finally and doing the last touch herself. She stood from her dressing table and the hairdresser exited while Jeanette, her lady’s maid, came forward and with her habitual dour expression brushed her mistress’s gown thoroughly.
Amy sighed and stood. “It was just a question.”
“Well, it was impertinent.”
“It was not impertinent coming from your chaperone. It’s my duty to ask such questions, and to pry unforgivably. To do less would be to abdicate responsibility.” Amy glanced at Rowena and caught the faintest hint of a smile. “And you know that, so stop roasting me, Rowena.”
“Shall we go?” Lady Rowena said as her maid brought her shawl.
“I suppose,” Amy said grudgingly. “Another night, another endless ball.”
• • •
Pierson followed Bainbridge into the Larkhurst house and up to the ballroom, really a series of three rooms thrown into each other. “Will Fallstone be here?” he asked his friend.
“You must be joking! He and the countess are carrying on an illicit affair; she would hardly invite him to a ball with her husband there. Besides, Fallstone is not on most invitation lists.”
“Hmm,” Pierson mused, glancing around himself and noting the elaborate decor, the urns of flowers, the verdant topiaries. How vastly expensive were such entertainments to host! “Has he done the unthinkable, like me?”
“No, not at all, but he is untitled and has few connections. He just isn’t on the list.”
“You say ‘the list’ as if there is an actual list somewhere that some aristocratic dragon keeps and updates to aid in the exclusion of outcasts and social pariahs.”
“I have no doubt such a list exists somewhere,” Bainbridge said, “for ladies like my mother to consult. I’m sure it has two sides: on one is two columns for those who are welcome into the inner circle and those who have misbehaved and are therefore banned. On the reverse is listed every infraction you, my friend, have ever committed.” He jabbed his friend in the arm.
“I feel suddenly like Sisyphus, doomed for eternity to perform an impossible task.” They strolled to the edge of the ballroom floor near a group of chattering ladies, some of whom eyed them hopefully. One young lady’s mother or chaperone dragged her away and whispered to her fiercely, and Pierson could not help but imagine that the young lady was being warned against him. “Will the damned stone ever stay up where I put it, Bain? Or will it keep rolling back down the hill, crushing me every time?”
“Don’t be gloomy, Pierson. You have only just begun to make your way, after all; you’re here, aren’t you? Continue to mend your ways and soon you will not need the intervention of Fallstone or anyone else. Sisyphus didn’t have my help.”
They continued strolling until they neared the door into the card room; two gentlemen were exiting. Pierson bumped into one accidentally, and the other fellow drew back as if he had been insulted.
“Pierson,” he said with a snarl. “How did you get in?”
Pierson gazed steadily at the fellow, a gentleman of about his own age, and tried to place him.
“Sanson, what is wrong with you?” Bainbridge said.
“I cannot believe that you are with this worm, Bainbridge.”
“He’s my friend.”
“He’s unworthy of that honor.”
“What on earth did I ever do to you . . . Sanson, is it?” Pierson stared at the other fellow and tried to place him, but could not for the life of him imagine they had ever met before, much less that he had offered the man some kind of insult.
“I don’t suppose you even remember, you horse’s ass,” Sanson grunted. “Probably too drunk. I was lining up the services of La Belle Delice—”
“La Belle . . . that dancer? Good God, I haven’t seen her in five years! She disappeared off to the Continent with some foreign count.”
“Nevertheless,” Sanson said, “she was to be mine and you cut me out! Can’t believe you would show your face in polite society.”
Bainbridge interrupted, stepping in front of Pierson. “Really, Sanson, that was five years ago. Can you not let bygones be bygones?”
“What do you know? You were not even in London at the time.”
Pierson, tamping down his spurt of anger at the intransigence of the silly fellow, pushed Bainbridge aside and said, “Sanson, if I did you wrong, I apologize. I didn’t know you had an interest in La Belle Delice, or I wouldn’t have cut you out in that unmannerly way. Again, I apologize.”
His friend murmured something to him and Sanson reluctantly nodded. “I guess I must accept your apology.”
The two men moved off, but Sanson continued to throw dark looks his way.
“That did not strike me as the kind of thing the old society matrons are concerned about,” Bainbridge commented wryly.
“No, I suppose not. But what else have I done that people will hold against me?”
“You worry too much, old man. I tell you, behave from now on and folks will either forget your transgressions or think they were vastly exaggerated.”
“Easy for you to say, Bain. You have never blotted your copybook.”
“Have you heard anything yet about that wretched thief, Lincoln?”
“Anything to change the subject, eh?” Pierson frowned down at the floor. “My solicitor says that there seems to be some mystery in the case. Lincoln was last seen in a tavern. He had been to the bank and collected the quarterly wages for dispersal to the staff, but after leaving that night he was never seen again. His purse was found several miles away near the shore. It has been suggested that he was robbed, but some just think he had finally had enough of Delacorte and absconded to the Continent. I think I’ll have to take a trip down there myself to straighten this out.”
Bainbridge was silent, and when Pierson looked up it was to find his friend staring at him.
“Now I am sure you have been transformed,” Bainbridge said. “Travel all the way to Kent to straighten out a matter pertaining to your estate?”
Stung, Pierson straightened and said, “See here, Bain, there is no cause to become sarcastic. I just . . . well, I cannot stop thinking about the staff at Delacorte, and how they are doing. What if they cannot get credit at the butcher anymore with Mr. Lincoln gone? He was the one who paid all of the accounts. And the grocer and coal merchant . . . old Mrs. McCracken has been cook at Delacorte this age. She must be near seventy by now. It’s not fair that she should have these kinds of worries.”
“I’m not being sarcastic, Pierson, I was just surprised into a hasty statement, that is all.”
But it was more than that, and Pierson knew it. He put one hand on his friend’s sleeve to stop him just as he was about to resume their stroll about the ballroom. “Look, Bain, I know I have not been the most assiduous of landlords, nor the most responsible of landowners. I mean to make it up to Delacorte someday, when . . . if . . .” When did he mean to make it up to them all, all the people of Delacorte and the village beyond? He shook his head. He would think of that another day, another—
A stirring near the door drew his attention and he drew in a sharp breath. Lady Rowena and her chaperone had arrived, but they were not alone. With them was the Duke of Sylverton, Lady Rowena’s esteemed and lofty papa, and in their midst was Lord Newton-Shrewsbury, looking as smug as a cat at the dairymaid’s skirt.
• • •
How it had all come about, Amy did not know. The duke had announced just as the carriage was being summoned that he had a mind to go to the Larkhurst ball. As if she did not have enough trouble, now Rowena was going to be forced to be in company with her papa, whom she appeared to despise most of the time, and the duke would be looking down his beaky nose at Amy and judging her performance as chaperon extraordinaire!
What a muddle! But as if that was not bad enough, just as they entered the Larkhurst ballroom Lord Newton-Shrewsbury had spoken to the duke. It appeared that the young man had, before ascending to his title through the death of his late father, been an aide of some sort to his Grace during the war. This was a fine pickle indeed, Amy worried, as they entered the already overheated ballroom, pausing only to murmur a greeting to the earl and countess, who looked overwhelmed with the honor of the duke’s visit. The duke was entirely capable, once he learned of Lord Newton-Shrewsbury’s affection for his daughter, to demand that she, Amy, somehow make his daughter decide on him as her future husband. The duke was wont to mishandle his daughter completely, thereby ensuring more scenes, more acrimony, and more trouble for herself.
Perhaps she was worrying for naught, but she had a dread feeling in her gut that her fears would come to pass. She put one hand over her stomach, feeling the quivering there already. She caught sight of Lord Bainbridge and Lord Pierson. Far from giving her pleasure, she had a dread of the two making their way over and speaking to Rowena. Just to irk her father, the lady was capable of ignoring Lord Newton-Shrewsbury entirely in favor of the viscount.
“Too soon, too soon,” Amy muttered to herself. She had hoped the duke would not meet Pierson for a few weeks until he and Rowena were practically, in the public eye, betrothed.
“I shall claim the honor of the first dance and the supper dance, my lady,” Newton-Shrewsbury said, bowing low and grabbing her card, suspended by a pale blue ribbon from her wrist.
Rowena snatched it away. “You may have the first, but you will not have the supper waltz, sir, as it is already spoken for.”
“By whom?”
Haughtily she said, “That is not your concern, my lord.”
Pierson and Bainbridge were fighting through the crowd, and Amy felt perspiration already on her upper lip.
“You rude child,” the duke thundered. His dark eyes were fixed on his daughter. “You will give the Earl of Newton-Shrewsbury exactly the dances he has requested.”
“I will not,” Rowena said, her gaze darting around until she found Lord Pierson. “Why, here comes the gentleman to whom I promised that supper dance!”
The duke’s expression looked thunderous for a moment, but then relaxed into a smile. “Why did you not say so, Rowena? Of course, I approve. Shrewsbury, you will have to select another for your second dance, for the Marquess of Bainbridge has reserved the supper dance with my lovely daughter!”
Fourteen
“Lord Bainbridge? But, Papa, that’s not—”
“My lady, perhaps there is some confusion.” Amy stepped forward to greet the two gentlemen, who were looking mildly confused, as was Lord Newton-Shrewsbury. “Just go along with this, my lords,” she muttered, shielded by a couple who were squeezing past them from the door. “And we shall all have a better time of it.” In a louder tone she said, “Of course, Lord Bainbridge is the very man who was promised the supper dance, is that not so, gentlemen?”
Bainbridge stepped forward toward the duke and his daughter. “Correct. My lady?” He held out his hand for Rowena’s card and she, with poor grace, handed it to him. He signed for the supper waltz and a later dance.
Amy could see that he was hard put to keep from smiling; if the situation were anything but desperate she would have smiled herself. Lord Newton-Shrewsbury had no recourse but to submit in the face of such general agreement.
That settled, there was another tense moment as the duke eyed Bainbridge and Pierson, but then the obsequious Lord Newton-Shrewsbury—he appeared to have decided that the way to Lady Rowena’s heart was through her father, which proved how little he knew—murmured to the duke that he was doing the ballroom a great honor by being there. The duke decided he owed it to the good earl and countess to personally greet each person present and stepped away to commence his charitable endeavor. Since there were over a hundred already and more pouring in every minute, Amy thought it might take a while, but at least he was not near his daughter.
Rowena, grasping Amy’s arm in a grip as tight as death, pulled her to one side. “What do you mean by making me dance with Lord Bainbridge for the supper dance? I was meant to dance that one with Lord Pierson. I promised him!”
“I did not think it wise to bring your father’s attention to Lord Pierson yet. If he should hear of his reputation—”
“He might have one of his temper fits,” Rowena said, her expression smug. “Don’t you think I’m aware of that?”
“You mean the only reason you wished to dance with Lord Pierson was to irk your father?”
“Of course not!” Her eyes wide, Rowena said, “I would never be so contemptible. It is not the only reason, it would just be a . . . well, an une
xpected benefit.”
Amy’s stomach clutched as if in the grasp of a fist. She examined her charge with distaste. “Do you have any feeling for Lord Pierson at all?” With her mind’s eye she could see the naked longing in the viscount’s golden eyes and could imagine how those eyes would become clouded if he was rejected. It hurt to consider his pain.
Rowena shrugged as she glanced around the ballroom. Lords Pierson and Bainbridge were standing a little distance away, engaged in what looked like a fierce argument.
“I don’t know,” she answered. She gazed at the two men. “I have only just met him after all, Amy. One cannot form an opinion after such a brief acquaintance.”
Amy had to allow that was a sensible rejoinder. Trying to calm her nerves, she replied, “So I would advise that until you know how you feel, you not deliberately antagonize your father into despising Lord Pierson. Anyway, you will likely not have to dance the supper dance with Lord Bainbridge, for I can’t imagine your father will spend more than an hour or so here. He is not one for balls and will become bored, I warrant, very shortly.”
But her assumption proved to be false. The duke’s elevated title meant he always received a high degree of reverence and obsequious attention, but his arrival at the Larkhurst ball had inspired an unprecedented wave of flattery and fuss. After all, though he was fifty-five and a widower for many years, it was not unknown for a gentleman of his age to take a second wife. Many of the chaperones and matrons saw his attendance as a sign he was in the market for that commodity. As a result of the adulation, he stayed. And stayed.
And stayed!
“It is eleven,” Amy said, taking a seat by Mrs. Bower. “And he still has not left. What if Rowena refuses to dance the supper waltz with Lord Bainbridge?” She fidgeted restlessly, moving to the edge of her seat.
The Chaperone's Secret Page 13
