The Chaperone's Secret

by Donna Lea Simpson

It was to his credit that he saw her in such a positive light, so Amy did not correct him. Rowena was just unwilling to have her Season disrupted by the inevitable search for a new chaperone. Since she was still Rowena’s chaperone, though, she needed the answers to many questions and was trying to decide how to ask them, when he suggested that since the competition looked to go on for some time, a walk down by the stream would be a pleasant way to spend a half hour. She acquiesced readily and he took her arm in his.

  She was flooded with memories of the waltz they had shared the night before and the heat rose in her cheeks. She must get over this foolish preference she felt for him if he was to become Rowena’s suitor, and she rather feared that was a conclusion that must be expected.

  “Miss Corbett,” he started, as they strolled down the soft green slope toward a budding willow at the water’s edge. “I would be honest with you always, and I would ask the same from you in return.”

  She nodded in reply.

  “I would like to be considered a suitor for Lady Rowena’s hand.”

  There it was, and Amy did not know what she had expected, but her heart jolted at the bald statement. So it was to be thus; he wished to court her. It would be her job now to promote the match if she thought it one that would bring both parties happiness.

  “I’m not surprised, my lord.”

  “I’m sure that there are many more worthy suitors. Lady Rowena could not fail to be courted by men with better rank, and certainly better prospects. Perhaps if I told you how I feel and what she means to me, you will see that I am best suited, as I have her best interests at heart.”

  With her new knowledge of where she had first seen him, she wondered if he would tell her about that night. She had reasoned through the night that he must have recognized her or even, perhaps, sought her out, and that must have been the genesis of his infatuation . . . or preference, she supposed she must call it. Infatuation implied a heady but brief rush of emotion.

  Certainly if he had any intelligence he would not tell her of his state that night and his first view of Lady Rowena. It didn’t really matter. All she was truly concerned about was the sincerity of his feelings for Lady Rowena. “I honor your intentions, my lord,” Amy said, referring to his last statement and the sincerity she heard in his tone.

  They stood on the banks of the stream and watched it slip by in silvery shimmers of light, reflecting the blue sky above and the white puffs of cloud, looking for all the world as if they drifted on the surface of the water. The willow stretched fingers down to the water and lazily trailed them in the burbling brook.

  “I am not, by most standards, a wealthy man, Miss Corbett. If that is a primary consideration for Lady Rowena’s hand, you will soon find my superior. But . . .” He paused and kicked at a bit of turf. “But my life has completely changed. I have a very pretty estate in Kent—I’ve spoken of it to you before—that has suffered badly at the hands of my father and grandfather, and, truth be told, myself. I have not lived as I should since attaining the title I now hold.”

  Amy let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “My lord, do not tell me anything you will regret before long.”

  He gave her a swift, sideways smile, and she was utterly charmed. There was so much self-deprecation in that look, so much humility, that her heart went out to him.

  “Somehow I feel my confidences will be safe with you.”

  “Should you not be telling this to Lady Rowena?” Amy stuttered, feeling suffocated by a longing to be close to him, to soothe the two lines of worry that slashed between his dark brows. The breeze lifted his dark curls and tousled them, and she almost reached out to smooth them but restrained the urge.

  “As much as I . . . care for Lady Rowena,” he said, “she is sometimes difficult to speak with on serious topics. Perhaps it’s to be expected that one so lovely and young and one who has never faced trouble should not wish to drone about serious topics, especially in the ballroom! But I was speaking of my estate. I’m going to try, now—I’m still young enough to make this attempt, I think—to undo the damage of many decades of neglect. I should have started ten years ago but I can’t regret that now. T’would serve no purpose. I must move forward.”

  “A wise way of looking at it.”

  “My estate has been depleted through bad management and neglect on my part, and lately the problems have reached a crisis.”

  He told her a tale of his land manager, a Mr. Lincoln, and how the man was missing; no one was sure whether he had absconded or whether there was a darker reason for his disappearance. “I should even now be there, and in a couple of days I need to make the trip to set some things straight. I have not lived as I ought, this past decade, and my reputation is . . .” He took a deep breath. “It’s damaged, Miss Corbett. I won’t try to hide the truth. Indeed, it would do me no good to make the attempt, for a discreet question here or there would reveal all. But even now I am working to mend it. Indeed, I think I’ve made some strides in the right direction already.” He turned toward Amy and took her gloved hands in his own bare ones.

  She gazed up into his eyes. They were honest brown and shone with determination that melted her heart.

  “But I believe that to do this great task,” he continued, “I need the inspiration afforded me by . . . by Lady Rowena. If I could just believe she might care for me . . . if such a perfect, tender, delicate, unspoiled dove could say she might someday be mine . . . why, I would toil until my skin cracked in the sun. I would spend every day in my own fields. I would, in short, do anything to be worthy!”

  How could Lady Rowena resist such a man, if he made his case to her? Amy felt sure that even her charge, as difficult and contrary as she sometimes could be, would be melted by such a frank and passionate speech. If it had been directed to her . . . but it hadn’t and never would be. Amy turned away from the secret longing of her own heart and thought about Rowena. And she considered her own best self-interest. If she gave him permission to woo Rowena and he should be successful, the duke could likely be made to see that marriage to a viscount was an honorable fate for his difficult daughter.

  But was it right? Would it serve for both of them? She squeezed his hands and pulled hers away.

  “My lord,” she said softly, quieting the clamor of self-interest and the warring desires of her own heart. “Would it not be best, if you have so much work that you must accomplish on your estate, to return there and commence? It sounds as if you should be there even now and indeed, I sense an underlying impatience with London and your stay here. I think if you search your heart you will find that you truly would prefer to be in Kent right now setting things to right on your estate.”

  • • •

  Pierson considered her words. He had expressed himself to Miss Corbett in a way he never had with another soul, not even Bainbridge, and felt unburdened in a way. She listened and believed him. So many would have scoffed at him, and many more would never believe him until he succeeded, but she took his aims seriously and it warmed him.

  But perhaps she didn’t understand. “I think, Miss Corbett, that I have failed to explain myself. I can’t leave London yet, for I believe that Lady Rowena is my destined helpmeet, my future. I would do all of this for her, but I must feel sure of her affection before I can depart London and set myself to my task.”

  “I think, my lord, that you must do this for yourself and for your name. Perhaps if you do—”

  A scream from above interrupted their earnest discussion, and Pierson felt it pierce him like an arrow. Lady Rowena! That was her own voice; she must be hurt. With a hasty word for Miss Corbett, he turned and ran up the slope to the archery field. Nothing less than his lady love laid out on the green grass with an arrow in her shoulder could account for such a heartrending shriek. He galloped up, his breath coming in gasps.

  A strange tableau greeted his eyes. Lady Harriet and Lord Newton-Shrewsbury stood at one end of the green and Bainbridge was in the center. Lady Rowena, her hand clutch
ing something, stood at the other end of the green and she screeched again and stamped her feet.

  Approaching her he gasped, “What is it? Lady Rowena, dear one, what is wrong? Are you hurt? Are you—”

  Panting with some strong emotion she held out one hand, her tan kid glove stained a dark hue. “Someone . . . somehow . . . there was a blot of dark ink on my arrow in my quiver!” she uttered. “And these are my favorite gloves! Ruined! Stained beyond repair! Who did this? I will know!”

  Seventeen

  “My lady,” Lord Newton-Shrewsbury remonstrated, pacing toward her. “’Twas surely an accident. Could’ve happened a hundred ways.”

  “How? You tell me how!” Lady Rowena, her face pinched into a grimace and with two hot red spots high on her cheeks, held out her gloved hand and waved it in the man’s face. “It was deliberate! And I resent that you would say such a thing. What, am I some raving idiot, then? Is that what you’re calling me?”

  Lord Newton-Shrewsbury backed away, his face pasty, stumbling in his backward perambulation across the turf. Pierson glanced around to find Lady Harriet looking truly concerned and Bainbridge with a frown on his face. Miss Corbett had arrived at the scene that moment and took her charge in hand, stripping off the offending glove and saying, “Rowena, it’s just a glove, after all.”

  “But it’s my favorite,” she said, her expression clouded and pinched. “I shall never have another pair I like as well, I know it.”

  “Nonsense. You have a dozen just like these.”

  Pierson frowned and watched the exchange. Bainbridge strolled over to him and said, “Such a fuss over a glove! One would think it was the end of the world the way she shrieked.”

  “I thought she had been hurt,” Pierson admitted. “I heard her scream and ran here, picturing her on the ground with an arrow through her!”

  “No, just caterwauling over her glove. She reached into her quiver to draw out an arrow, and that is when her glove became stained.”

  “It is odd, you must admit,” Pierson mused.

  “What is?”

  “This string of bad luck she has been having. Her spill on the dance floor last night, and the wine on her dress.”

  Bainbridge shrugged.

  “And how did the ink, or whatever the stain is from, come to be in her quiver when it was not there earlier? She is a sensitive young lady,” Pierson said. “Poor girl; she is merely high-strung. That is a testament to her breeding.”

  Bainbridge snorted, but Pierson hadn’t time to ask him what he meant by such a noise, as Miss Corbett approached them just then. “Lady Rowena’s maid is retrieving another pair of gloves for her,” she said. She glanced back at her charge, who was speaking to Lady Harriet and pointedly ignoring Lord Newton-Shrewsbury. “I don’t understand how these things keep happening.”

  “We were just discussing that,” Bainbridge said. “I find it highly suspect that Lord Newton-Shrewsbury just happens to be near whenever these things occur.”

  Pierson glanced in surprise at his friend, as did Miss Corbett.

  “You cannot think that Lord Newton-Shrewsbury would do anything like this?” she said.

  “Why not,” Bainbridge said with a shrug. “He does seem always to be near. I think I saw him last night just as the wine was spilled; he was among those who were squeezing by our table.”

  “I didn’t see him. I thought he left after their spill on the dance floor.” She frowned and fell silent for a moment. “What would be his motive?” she continued. She shook her head. “No, I can’t believe that it has anything to do with him. Just a string of coincidences.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Bainbridge said.

  Archery was abandoned in favor of a late luncheon. After lunch the party broke up to some extent and Pierson, with Miss Corbett’s tacit approval, led Lady Rowena on a walk. They were silent as they strolled at first, and he glanced at her often, admiring the curve of her cheek, the silvery blond of her exquisite hair and the rose pink of her lips. No portrait artist in the world could ever capture the happy unity of her features and coloring, he thought.

  His heart full to bursting, he felt a need to speak to her of some of the things he was thinking and feeling. With the memory fresh of Miss Corbett’s advice, he wondered if he was rushing things too much. If he had some encouragement from her—

  “My lady,” he said, taking her arm as they strolled down the grassy slope. “How I wish you could see Delacorte, my country estate. It is on a prominence much like this place but it’s wilder, and I confess that appeals to me more than this ruthless subjugation of nature. I’m going back there soon to take care of some estate business.”

  She was silent.

  “I’m worried for my estate staff,” he continued, “for my land manager seems to have disappeared, and—”

  “Lord Pierson, do you think me spoiled?”

  Stuttering to a halt, Pierson did not know how to answer, except, “Well, of course not, my lady. Who would say—”

  “Lord Bainbridge, while we were competing, said I had been spoiled so badly that I was a poor loser. He beat me handily and then said I was moaning when I remonstrated with him about his shocking joy over having bested me!”

  “I’m appalled he would be so ungentlemanly!” Pierson said.

  “But is he right?”

  “Of course not! You are completely unspoiled and the image of perfection.”

  “And so I told him,” she said with a nod and in a better humor.

  They strolled on, but no matter how much Pierson tried to raise the subject of his hopes and dreams, his estate, all the work that remained to be done, he found himself talking into a void. It was only when he spoke of her stained glove that he elicited any emotion from her that afternoon. And then his only reward was to listen to her rail against the unseen forces that were conspiring against her enjoyment.

  • • •

  The sky was golden with slanting rays as they left the estate and began their two-hour journey back to London. The roads were dusty, so about halfway there Bainbridge suggested they stop at an inn for a cup of restorative tea for the ladies, and though there was sulking and much exhaustion, his notion was greeted with some relief.

  Amy had found, over the course of the afternoon, that she had her suspicions about the true state of Lady Harriet’s feelings, as tight as that young woman’s expression often was. It seemed to her that the marquess’s sister nursed a tendre for Pierson, one which she had no hope of seeing come to fruition, but a preference nonetheless.

  It made Amy’s mood melancholy, for it reminded her of her own tender feelings toward him, and she wondered why one man, Lord Bainbridge, with everything to recommend him including looks, wealth and intelligence, should have no one expiring for love of him, and the other, Lord Pierson, with such a reckless past and uncertain future, should have three ladies in their company languishing for love of him.

  Granted, she was too sensible herself to be languishing, or expiring or any other such nonsensical feeling. But if she let herself—

  Oh, if she let herself. She sighed again over the light in his beautiful eyes as he spoke of his home estate. He seemed to be, after neglecting it for years, discovering an awakening passion for his home. She only hoped he heeded it and stayed the course, giving back to his title and people what was owed after so many years of neglect. Every advice she could give him would be in that direction, even if it should countermand her own best interest, which lay in a hasty wooing and wedding of Lady Rowena.

  Self-interest urged that path, and she felt that all things being equal, they would have as good a chance at being happy as the next couple. But how did she balance what was best for him, for Rowena and for his people, estate and title, together? In truth, it was not up to her. He was a grown man and would ultimately make his own choice.

  At that moment the inn was in sight and the gentlemen guided the carriage driver to the front to allow the ladies to step down. It was an ancient Tudor inn, low-roofed an
d half-timbered, and the gentlemen needed to stoop as they entered the public rooms. The innkeeper bustled forth and, seeing their quality, immediately offered them his best private room for refreshments.

  The company, weary after a day of outdoor sport, was quiet, with Lord Newton-Shrewsbury pointedly ignoring Lady Rowena in favor of Lady Harriet, and Bainbridge—just returned from conferring with his groom—sitting alone and staring into the fire that was welcome against the spring chill that had begun with a fresh breeze on their journey home.

  Lord Pierson and Rowena sat together, with Amy just a little ways away. She could overhear their conversation. Pierson tried to speak of his estate but Rowena pouted prettily until the subject once more came around to her, and how lovely she was in the firelight. He again tried to speak of his home and how he felt a mistress would give the old place life and cheer again.

  Rowena was silent for a long minute, but then answered that she thought London much more cheerful than the country. Then she sighed and said what she truly longed to do was travel. She wished to see Italy and Greece and sail the Mediterranean. That was her dream.

  Amy had heard her speak of such things before but had never realized how serious she was about traveling. Poor Lord Pierson’s expression was glum, and Amy thought she could trace the hopelessness he must feel, knowing that his own finances would not run to foreign travel for many years to come, and perhaps never, unless he chose to retrench, rent out his estate, perhaps, and live more cheaply abroad, as many in dun territory did.

  When the landlord personally brought in refreshments the company gathered around the trestle table in the center of the snug room. Somehow, Lord Newton-Shrewsbury ended up beside Rowena at the table. The frost between them was painfully funny to Amy, considering how assiduous that young man had been to the duke’s daughter before that afternoon. She supposed she should not see the humor in the stiff little scene, but she could not help it, and caught Lord Bainbridge eyeing the situation with a lift to the corners of his mouth.