Harry halted for a second as he was sitting down, then settled himself carefully and took a long look at Lady Penworth before speaking. She might have been taken for a bonbon, covered as she was in frills and ribbons, but she did actually look worried, and he had a sudden, sinking feeling. “Is Lord Penworth ill?” he asked cautiously.
“No, that is not the problem. At least, it is not the problem yet.”
Harry did not feel comforted. He had started to worry himself, especially after talking to Rycote. If his friend was worried enough to mention it, and if Lady Penworth was worried, something was definitely wrong, and that distressed Harry more than he could say. There was no man he admired—no, loved—more than Lord Penworth.
“He is tired. Far too tired.” Lady Penworth frowned.
“He does seem tired, a bit depressed,” he agreed carefully. It would have been overly blunt to say that Penworth looked terrible, but tired was a good deal better than truly ill. Could weariness be all there was to the problem?
“Depressed,” she said slowly. “Yes, I suppose that is a good description. He has always been conscientious to a fault, but this recent war with Russia has worn on him. He was unable to prevent it; he was unable to convince anyone of the dangers of giving command to fools like Cardigan. And now he is worried that the army is going to create another disaster in India.”
Harry acknowledged that with a grimace. “I spent some time in India. I wish I could say that his fears are groundless.”
“What are your plans for the next few months, Harry?”
The abrupt change of subject startled him. “Well, I can’t say that I have any specific plans. After talking to Lord Penworth these past few days, I have begun to think I might try for a seat in Parliament.”
“That would make Penworth very happy.”
Her approving smile made Harry flush. “It was just a thought,” he mumbled.
“Is there anything urgent about it? I don’t think any elections are coming up at the moment.”
“No, not at all. Just a thought.”
“Then perhaps you would be able to help me.”
“Anything, my lady.”
She smiled at him again. “Well, Penworth needs a distraction, something that will absorb him enough to take his mind off the iniquities of the British Army. He needs something he can sink his mental teeth into, something that he can enjoy with no feelings of guilt. Something scholarly. I think I know what will do it. You were in Italy for a while, were you not?”
“For more than a year.”
“Then you speak Italian?”
“Yes, somewhat.” He was confused. Could she want him to teach Lord Penworth Italian? His own knowledge of the language was thoroughly vernacular, not intended for reading Dante or Petrarch, or even for diplomatic correspondence. More for dealing with officials and getting in and out of gambling casinos with his skin intact.
“Wonderful.” Lady Penworth beamed at him. “Now, I don’t know if you have read Mr. Dennis’s book on Etruscan antiquities.”
He shook his head. “The Etruscans? Are they the ones with all the tombs, and the statues with the funny little smiles?”
“Yes, that’s them. They seem to have been such a cheerful people. But you haven’t read Dennis?”
He shook his head again.
“No matter,” she continued. “I have and so has Penworth. We both found it fascinating and talked about someday going to Italy to see the ruins for ourselves. Now would be the perfect time.”
By now Harry had a sinking feeling. If Lady Penworth was being this indirect, he suspected it was because she thought he would not want to do whatever she was proposing. And since he owed her and her entire family far too much to be able to refuse anything she asked, he was growing increasingly nervous.
“Do you wish me to help you plan a trip?” he asked hopefully.
“Nothing so simple, I’m afraid.” She gave him a rueful smile. “What I really want is for you to accompany us.”
“You and Lord Penworth?”
“And Rycote and Elinor. I thought to leave soon, while the younger ones are still in school.”
The sinking feeling was replaced by panic. No. He could not possibly do this. “A family voyage? But surely you will not need me when you have Rycote and Lord Penworth.”
“Oh, but I do! Lord Penworth knows almost no Italian, and I really do not want to burden him with the cares of dealing with officialdom. You know that Rycote is truly hopeless with languages, and his way of dealing with officials whose rules make no sense to him is to lose his temper and shout.”
Harry bit back a smile at the memory of Pip at school battling what he saw as an usher’s abuse of authority. Pip could never tolerate bullies.
“Elinor speaks French and Italian, of course,” Lady Penworth continued blithely, “but it would be difficult if not impossible to get officials to take her seriously. The French and Italians seem unable to treat women as anything other than decorative ninnies. They are quite as bad as Englishmen, possibly worse. No, Harry, Penworth needs to relax. That will only happen if you are there to take care of things. He trusts you.”
She looked at him seriously. “I know this is a great deal to ask, months of your life when you may have all sorts of things planned”—she smiled impishly—“things you might not want to tell me about, and you need not. You must just say so if I am asking too much.”
Too much? Of course it was too much. How could he possibly set off on a trip where he would be with Norrie for months? There must be some reason why he had to stay in England. There must be responsibilities involving his father’s—the Earl of Doncaster’s—estates. He was the heir, after all, and it was unlikely that either the earl or the countess had been attending to things. They never had before.
He opened his mouth to say “No, I couldn’t possibly,” but what came out was “I would be honored.”
Four
A week later, he was not sure how it had all come about, but somehow Lord Penworth was under the impression that he was indulging his wife by agreeing to this trip. Pip was under the impression that he was going along to protect his mother and sister. Norrie did not seem to care how or why the trip had been proposed. She was completely unable to behave with ladylike restraint and had all she could do to keep from jumping up and down with glee.
Lady Penworth was summoned to visit the queen.
“I don’t entirely understand it,” she told Elinor on her return. “Her Majesty seems to approve of me. Do you suppose it’s because I have six children?”
“Don’t be silly, Mama,” Elinor said with a grin. “It’s because you clearly adore Papa, just as she adores Prince Albert. You are a Good Example and show that she isn’t foolish.”
“She is, of course. If she weren’t a queen, no one would take her for anything but a ninny.” Lady Penworth settled herself comfortably and took a sip of tea. “But I am grateful that she approves of our trip. It does make things easier.”
Things did not go entirely smoothly, of course.
Tunbury was relieved to be the one taking care of the minor problems, like arranging letters of credit, working out an itinerary to get them to Rome with the least discomfort, and getting passports and visas—France, Austria, and the Papal States were all involved, and some signatures could not be obtained until a week or two before arrival.
They would spend a week or so in Paris, and a hotel was needed there. Then Penworth said no—the ambassador was an old friend, so they would be staying at the embassy. So the ambassador had to be warned. Hotels would be needed in Chalons, Lyon, Aix, Avignon, and Marseilles. Then the British consul in Rome was requested to arrange for a private carriage to meet the party at Civita Vecchia, along with a lascia-passare, the passport that would enable them to avoid the endless formalities of the customhouse. The consul was also requested to arrange apartments for them in Rome.
In some ways everything was much simpler than it had been when he set off on his own travels. People f
ell over themselves to be helpful to a marquess, especially one who was an important and respected figure in the House of Lords, and—even more especially—one who was one of the wealthiest men in England.
On the other hand, not much had to be arranged for a young man traveling on his own, one who avoided mentioning his title and enjoyed the anonymity this provided. Nobody paid much attention to Harry de Vaux, who had far more freedom that Viscount Tunbury could ever have. However, that sort of travel also presented certain dangers, and more than once he had occasion to be grateful for his size and strength. Lady Penworth and Lady Elinor were entitled to all the safety and comfort that could be provided. Except…
Norrie would enjoy traveling the way he had. She would love the freedom of it, and he would be all the protection she needed. Together they could…
No.
He clamped down on that thought, determined to dismiss Lady Elinor from his mind. He had obligations, obligations he had neglected for far too long. He had two sisters.
*
The springs on the hired gig should have been replaced years ago, and the padding had almost completely disappeared from the seat. As good a way as any to do penance, Tunbury decided. Did he qualify as a prodigal son? Could one be a prodigal son if one’s parents were prodigals themselves? The right wheel hit a bump and he went up in the air, landing on his hip and putting an end to meaningless speculations.
He was a bit late for a visit to his sisters, wasn’t he? He should have come the minute he returned to England. He snorted. What rot. Late wasn’t the half of it. What he should have done was talk to them before he left in the first place. Maybe he should even have taken them with him. No, that was impossible. They were only children. He couldn’t have told them the truth, of course. But he could have told them something.
Instead, he had run away. There was no other way to put it. And he was planning to run away again after this visit.
The self-reproach was veering dangerously close to self-pity by the time he found himself in the blue drawing room of Bradenham Abbey, pacing nervously while he awaited his sisters. Shouldn’t the room seem more familiar? This was his home, in theory at least, no matter that he’d spent little time here in the past fifteen years. Still, had it always been this smothered in heavy draperies? He would surely have remembered all these badly painted landscapes on the walls with their anatomically bizarre deer. But if they were new, what blind man had chosen them?
He paused to stare out the window, trying to decide if there had been any changes in the landscape. Perhaps it just looked gloomy because it was February and the weak sun had almost set.
“Harry!”
He turned in time to catch the bundle that hurtled into him. It wrapped its arms around him, and he looked down into brown eyes and a glowing smile under a mop of blond curls. He hugged it back. “Hullo, Olivia.” He managed to squeeze the words out around the lump in his throat.
He looked up to see his other sister standing just inside the door, hands folded at her waist, face impassive. “Hello, Julia.”
She gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment. “You remember our names. I stand amazed. I had thought that you had quite forgotten our existence.”
He flinched at the sting, deserved as it was. Had she polished that speech, preparing for this scene? All the words he had rehearsed had vanished from his mind.
“Oh no,” Olivia protested. “I knew you were coming back. When we found out you had left, Mama said you would not come back, but I was sure you would. We had your letters.”
“Your letters.” Julia’s voice was flat. “Let me see. You wrote to us from Greece and told us there were ruins. Then came India. You said it was hot. And America. You said the Great Plains were flat and empty.”
He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry. That sounds ridiculously inadequate, I know. I can’t explain, but I had to leave. I simply had to.”
“Sorry? Sorry that you left?” she asked incredulously.
“No. Sorry that I had to leave you and Olivia here on your own.”
They stared at each other in silence. Finally, she turned away and flopped down in a chair. The haughty young lady had been replaced by a sulky child. “You might as well sit down,” she said. “I’m not really angry.” She thought for a moment. “Well, yes, I am. But it’s mostly envy. I’d run away too if I could.”
He sat down on a sofa cautiously, with Olivia beside him clinging to his hand. He had no idea what he ought to say. It was as if his sisters were strangers.
Well, of course they seemed like strangers. They’d been little more than babies when he went off to school, and since then he had never been at the Abbey for more than a few days at a time. But they were his sisters. He felt that he ought to know them. Pip knew his sisters.
In fact, he knew Pip’s sisters too. Far better than he knew his own. He squirmed uncomfortably. He wasn’t even sure how old Julia was, though she certainly wasn’t a child anymore. In fact, she was really quite pretty, and her hair was up. That meant she was grown up, didn’t it? He thought for a moment. She was seventeen, he was sure of it. Unless she was eighteen. No, seventeen. “Have you come out yet?”
The abrupt question won him a glare. “No, I haven’t. Nor will I be coming out this season. Something else I have to thank you for.”
He blinked. “How can that be my fault?”
“Without you about, Mama was trying to pretend she was not much older than thirty. That fiction will be harder to maintain once I am out.”
“That’s ludicrous.” He had to laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
She shrugged, the look on her face far too cynical for a young girl.
“Are you going to be staying now?” Olivia was looking up at him with those big brown eyes.
“Don’t be foolish, Livvy,” said Julia. “Why would he want to stay?”
“It’s not that,” he said, the guilt piling up. “I’m going to Italy in a week or so with the Tremaines.”
“Oh, of course,” said Julia. “With the Tremaines. It’s always been the Tremaines. For as long as I can remember, you’ve stopped off to see us only on your way to the Tremaines. They’re your real family. Not us.”
The protest died in his throat. The Tremaines weren’t his real family. He knew that all too well. But he had always wished they were, and he had been able to find a refuge with them for all those years. Did his sisters have such a choice? “Do you have some friends you can stay with? Some neighbors?”
Julia gave a short, bitter laugh. “Respectable people wish to have nothing to do with us. We might bring the contagion of the notorious Lady Doncaster with us.”
What an idiot he had been. He should have realized that it would be even worse for them as girls than it had been for him. He had been able to fight, and after he had bloodied enough noses, the other boys left him alone. Girls couldn’t do that. They would be surrounded by whispers and slights, and they would have no way to fight back.
The stigma of bad blood would color everyone’s thinking. Decent people would avoid any contact with them, fearing they would turn out just like their mother. It wouldn’t be long before there would be others who sought their company, hoping they would indeed be just like their mother. He would have to deal with that problem, but he could not at the moment. Not yet.
“This trip to Italy—I have to go.” He lifted his hand in a hopeless gesture.
“Really?” Julia managed to invest that single word with a remarkable amount of scorn.
“I owe them so much, and I gave my word. But I promise that when I get back, I will take care of you. I will find some way.”
“Really?” said Olivia. There was no scorn in her voice, but the hope in her face was heartbreaking.
“Really,” he said. “Have I ever broken a promise?”
Olivia stopped and frowned in thought. “I don’t think you’ve ever made one,” she said at last.
No, he didn’t suppose he ever had. “Well, I’m making one now.
”
*
For Lady Elinor, preparations for the trip were centered on the dressmaker. Her mother shared her concern. What were they to wear while exploring ruins and descending into tombs? Crinolines were out of the question.
Long hours in conference with the dressmaker were required, then days when Elinor and her mother spent a good deal of time with a sketchbook, followed by more hours with the dressmaker. When the final product was tried on, Mrs. Packer looked at her clients in surprise. She walked slowly around them, examining the outfits from all angles. “Well,” she said at last, “I doubt I will find any other clients willing to dress in this fashion, but I do believe you two will be able to pull it off. I only hope Lord Penworth won’t demand my head for it.”
Elinor laughed and spun around. “You know he will not do anything of the sort. I only wish I could wear something like this all the time.”
“In London you would either be pelted with eggs or arrested on the spot,” said her mother dryly. “But the outfit definitely seems practical.”
It was more than practical, thought Elinor. It was wonderfully flattering. The color, a deep blue with hints of green, deepened the color of her eyes. The sturdy poplin jacket, with its corded seams running from the shoulders to the vee at the center of the waist, made her waist look tiny even without tight lacing. The ruffles at the wrists and neck of the blouse looked as soft and frivolous as lace without being nearly so fragile. As for the skirt, they had taken a leaf from Mrs. Bloomer and improved on her design. It was a divided skirt, far narrower than anything that had been seen in decades, coming down below the knee, over loose trousers that tucked into boots.
Elinor smiled at her reflection, a devilish smile. She looked ready for adventure. Harry would not be able to dismiss her as a child when he saw her in this. He would finally see her as an adventurer like him, as an equal, as a worthy partner.
She would make him see it.
Five
The Lady Anne rose and fell as she proceeded across the Channel. She was no leaking sieve, no indeed. At more than a hundred feet, the Lady Anne was one of the finest steam yachts designed by Robert Napier, elegant enough to carry the Penworth party in style, practical enough to serve the multitudinous Penworth interests. The party had embarked in London in the early evening, and the highly competent and experienced captain had assured them that by the time they awoke in the morning they would be safe and sound in Calais.
Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures Page 3
