by Lynne Barron
“Actually she said bookish and wild but only because she lacks a vocabulary sufficient to offer greater insult.”
“And for that you intend to what? Pull her braids? Spatter mud over her pinafore?”
“I would never be so childish.” Fanny began to slide from his mount’s back and Henry had no choice but to clasp her about the waist and assist her to the ground.
“You are becoming quite the little lady,” he said, wondering just when she’d matured from tiny termagant to sensible miss.
“Besides, such behavior is not worth the lecture Mama would hand down.”
“There is that,” he agreed.
“Too, a wise woman recently suggested I pick my battles well and only engage when I am assured of victory and… What was that other bit? Oh, yes, plausible deniability.”
“You ought not to listen to most of what Aunt Alice tells you,” he cautioned, knowing full well he wasted both his words and the breath it took to form them.
“Aunt Alice is hardly a wise woman,” she replied. “Else she would not be forever whittling away at Uncle Piedmont’s patience.”
“If Alice did not offer up that particular bit of wisdom, who did?”
“Charlie, grab up our hoops and climb the hill with me!” Fanny turned away to holler across the grass to her brother rather than answer his question.
“But I’m looking for clovers,” Charlie called back, a smile blooming across his chubby cheeks when he spotted Henry. “Hullo, Uncle Henry.”
“Good afternoon, wee lordling,” Henry greeted.
“I’ll help you to find all the clover you wish after I’ve made my peace with Penelope,” Fanny promised.
“Is that what we’re about?” Charlie scrambled to his feet and pushed his booty of mangled and wilted weeds in Miss Amherst’s direction. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I just did. Now hurry before she disappears around the bend.”
Charlie scooped up the two colorful hoops and matching sticks and tore across the grass, stopping before his uncle only long enough to offer a crooked smile and a hurried bow.
Henry ruffled the boy’s curls in passing and continued on toward the narrow bench upon which two ladies sat conversing.
Miss Josephine Amherst was dressed simply in a navy-blue gown, her dark hair pulled back into a tidy bun. Sunlight glinted off her spectacles as she turned to watch his approach.
Mrs. Sophia Miles continued chatting away as if oblivious to his imminent arrival.
“I’m only saying as how I find it odd how Mrs. Bentley has befriended the lady,” the plump woman said, waving her hands about in apparent agitation. “I know she shares a bond with the young lord, but is that enough to occasion tea in the front parlor every day this week? Not to mention her appearance here today. And what do you supposed she was about, whispering with Lady Francis that way?”
“I’ve no idea,” Josephine answered in a distracted fashion as Henry stopped before the bench, his shadow finally drawing Mrs. Miles’s attention.
“Oh, Lord Hastings!” The children’s nurse jumped up, her rather wondrous breasts jiggling with the sudden movement. “I didn’t see you there, my lord.”
“Are we perhaps discussing my sister’s latest choice for the future countess?” Henry asked.
“Future countess?” Josephine repeated with a giggle.
“I rather doubt it. She is hardly the sort you would take to wife.” Mrs. Miles looked beyond Henry’s shoulder and he turned to follow her gaze.
A lady strolled along the riverbank in the opposite direction, an outrageous hat angled just so on her head, the brim large enough to cast her face, neck and shoulders into shadow, the crown bedecked with all manner of ribbons, greenery and fat clusters of…cherries?
Henry had taken but two steps toward the retreating figure when a high-pitched scream rent the air. Spinning about, he sought the source of the terror-laced sound.
Two ladies and three girls in a rainbow of frilly gowns scrambled in every direction as one bright pink hoop rolled down the hill, gathering speed as it neared the path.
A little girl with blonde hair tripped over the hem of her pink dress as she backed away from the rolling hoop. She flailed about, desperately searching for balance before falling on her bottom and tumbling heels over head.
Atop the hill Lady Francis Gibbons jumped about with her hands waving in the air. Beside her Lord Palmerton was doubled over in laughter as the hoop sped past Miss Penelope Greenpeace who lay flat on her back with her legs in the air, gifting everyone within a country mile with the sight of her frilly white bloomers.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Earl of Hastings arrived at Raleigh’s Folly at half-past eight though Olivia’s invitation had clearly stated he was to arrive on the hour.
It was a calculated move designed to serve notice to the lady that he was wise to her matchmaking and his days of kowtowing to a woman, be she sister, cousin, or marriageable miss, were over.
He would venture down the aisle when he was good and ready and not a moment before that time. And when such time arrived he would bloody well find his own wife and she certainly would not be a lady anyone would describe as ever so clever, though not terribly pretty.
As Davenport had dressed him in a somber black suit of clothes, Henry had decided that it was time he explained the facts of life to Olivia. If Beatrice had made the journey from Surrey, he would damn well let her in on the facts, as well.
And by God, he would come up with a way to let the ladies of London know he was no longer available to be ridden for their pleasure.
Light shone from behind the lace curtains and high-spirited conversation drifted through the open windows as he made his way up the path toward the sprawling red brick house graced with two turrets and a deep, covered porch.
Before he could lift the knocker the door swung open and the Bentley’s butler bowed from the waist. “Welcome, Lord Hastings.”
“Pendergrass,” Henry greeted. “I trust you are well and that the little devils are not driving you to drink.”
“No more than usual, my lord.”
“Speaking of drinking.” Henry stepped into the spacious foyer done up in shades of yellow and green with landscapes hanging on the walls, most of them rendered by Beatrice and depicting scenes of Idyllwild. “Be a good chap and find me a glass of something strong to fortify me for the coming ordeal.”
The butler nodded to a footman dressed in a simple gray jacket and black trousers who promptly scampered down the hall toward Bentley’s study.
“I don’t suppose they’ve already gone in to dinner?”
“No, my lord. Mrs. Bentley insisted upon waiting for you.”
“And the new friend? Would it be too much to hope her mother came down with the ague or her father only just learned he’d lost his fortune in a faulty scheme of some sort?”
“Necessitating a hastily scribbled note begging off from dinner, you mean?” Pendergrass asked, reaching for the hat and walking stick the earl held out to him. “Alas, there was no note and the lady arrived promptly at eight of the clock.”
“A real stickler, is she?”
The footman returned, carefully balancing a crystal tumbler on a small silver tray.
“I would not presume to hazard an opinion, my lord,” Pendergrass replied without so much as a twitch of his lips or a lift of his brow.
“Ah, so she is a stickler.” Henry reached for the proffered glass and took a quick sip. “A bookish type, I understand. And not terribly easy on the eye.”
“Beauty is as beauty does.” The butler sniffed and stiffened his spine, no easy feat for a man whose posture was already as rigid as a board.
“Fancy the chit, do you?” Henry decided the smooth, mellow liquor was precisely the cure for what ailed him and tossed back the entire glass.
The burn was instantaneous and welcome.
“Mrs. Bentley has taken a liking to the lady.” Pendergrass reached for the glass, whisking it b
ehind his back to disappear into the hands of the footman. “They seem to have formed a fast friendship since meeting last week.”
“Last week?” Henry repeated around a chuckle that turned into a cough. “I am to be foisted off on some marriage-minded miss on the basis of such short acquaintance?”
Pendergrass’ façade cracked, beginning with a decided tic at his right cheek that pulled at his lips and worked its way up to his eye, setting the lid fluttering. He lifted his head, staring up at the ceiling, his shoulders beginning to shake.
“What is it, man?” Henry demanded. “Out with it. She’s worse than clever and plain, isn’t she? Haughty and horse-faced? Giggly and stout?”
“Henry, you’ve arrived.”
With a final glare at the butler who was making odd little hiccupping noises, Henry turned toward the front parlor just as Olivia pushed open the door.
Laughter and excited chatter trailed in his sister’s wake, the unmistakable sounds of dozens of dinner guests holding half as many conversations at once.
Olivia strolled through the open door looking lovely despite the mourning gown of unrelieved black silk and lace that covered her from neck to ankles. Her dark curls were pulled away from her face and threaded with matching ribbon.
Gray eyes shining and a pretty flush on her cheeks, she held out both hands.
Henry smiled as he took her hands and pulled her into an embrace.
“I’d nearly given up on you,” she said, a soft rebuke.
“Have I missed seeing Fanny in all her finery?” Guilt hit him square in the gut.
“Fanny was asleep before the first guest arrived. It seems there was some excitement in the park today.”
“So you heard about that little bit of drama?”
“Mrs. Greenpeace was at my door only minutes after the children returned from the park.”
“Handed down a lecture, did you?”
“As to that, Fanny denied any evil intent and…well, her explanation did sound plausible,” she replied, stepping back and looking up into his face. “Good gracious, Henry could you not bother to shave?”
“I shaved this morning,” he protested.
“You look like that scruffy dog that used to hang about the stables when we were children.” She reached up to straighten his cravat before patting at his hair. “Honestly, what is the world coming to when a gentleman arrives for dinner late and looking as if he only just rose from his bed?”
“Or someone else’s,” Alice drawled, sweeping into the hall to stand beside Olivia.
Seen together the ladies might have been sisters rather than cousins. Both possessed delicate features and pewter-gray eyes, though there was a sharpness to Alice’s gaze, a cynicism that Olivia lacked and always would.
They were of a height, Alice slim where Olivia was gently rounded.
Alice wore her sable tresses piled high on her head, braids and coils wound around like a crown. She’d draped her slender form in jet silk, matching gems twinkling at her ears and dropping into her décolletage which was amply displayed by the low cut of her bodice.
“Oh, Henry, never say you have come straight from your latest paramour’s boudoir to my dinner,” Olivia said, rising to her toes to sniff at his neck.
“Stop that.” He stepped back lest she start plucking at his neck cloth in search of rouge stains.
“I so wanted you to make a good first impression,” she grumbled.
“I would imagine the lady has already formed a first impression,” Alice said, her voice laced with laughter. “Perhaps even a second or third. Whether any of them have been good remains to be seen.”
“I suppose there is nothing to be done about your untidy state,” Olivia said, waving her hand toward the front parlor and the sounds of laughter and conversation coming from within. “Perhaps now you have arrived, you can lead my guests in to dinner. Lord knows I’ve had no luck getting them to budge from the parlor.”
Henry ushered the ladies into the parlor ahead of him, stopping just inside the room to assess the situation.
By the noise level, he’d expected thirty or more guests, the immediate family of uncles, aunts and cousins.
Only half as many people occupied the parlor and all of them were crowded into one corner of the spacious room, their voices raised to be heard above one another.
Beatrice and Easton flanked Aunt Lucinda, their backs to the door. Before them Lord Baldwin stood looking off into space, one bony hand brushing back and forth over the white beard he wore to hide his weak chin and jowly cheeks. In his customary fashion, he barked out single words with long spaces between them, making any shared conversation an exercise in frustration.
Beside him Alice’s husband, Lord Piedmont was chatting away without stopping for breath, his arms waving about as he emphasized some point or other, the wispy gray hairs combed over his pate trembling with each movement.
Lady Singleton opened and closed her mouth, obviously wishing to interject something into the conversation, would her brother only stop speaking long enough to allow it.
Jack Bentley stood between Lord and Lady Morris, the former wearing an ill-fitting suit two decades out of fashion while his wife sported a tent of a dress beneath a lace mantilla.
Mr. and Mrs. Statham were positioned just behind the others, their gray heads bobbing in time to the tapping of the lady’s cane and the gentleman’s babble. Beside them Lady White leaned forward with her ear trumpet raised in an attempt to catch each morsel of whatever gossip had the lot of them ensnared.
Where were the younger relations? Everett and Lady Heloise and Lady Margaret? Mr. and Mrs. Connor Simms, the Derby brothers and all of the others who made up his generation?
Aside from Beatrice and Olivia and their respective spouses, Alice was the only person under the age of fifty in the room.
“Hastings has finally arrived,” Olivia announced to the room’s inhabitants, tossing up her hands in frustration when she was ignored. “Do you see what I mean? I cannot get their attention and if we do not go into dinner soon Cook’s roast pheasant will be ruined and I’ll have a mutiny on my hands.”
“Dinner is served,” Henry called out, chuckling when the conversation died down not at all. “You ought to have a gong about for just such occasions. What has them in a tizzy?”
“Oh, you know how they can be when someone sends them down memory lane,” Olivia replied. “I thought to wait until dinner, but Aunt Singleton recognized her right off and before I quite knew what was happening they were all crowded around offering up remembrances.”
From the midst of his mostly elderly relations, a soft husky laugh rose above the prattle.
A feather, fluffy and died a vibrant purple, bobbed over gray heads.
Bentley looked up from Lady Morris, found Henry standing at the threshold to the room and winked.
As Henry pondered that sly wink, a single word, a name tossed out by Aunt Singleton, rose above the indiscernible babble and caught his attention.
“Miss Connie came from somewhere to the north I believe.” Lady Singleton proclaimed.
“Shropshire, I think it was.” Lady Morris replied.
“Father was a minor baronet,” Piedmont interjected, “and her mother…”
“A baroness in her own right,” the Dowager Countess Easton piped up.
“Surely there aren’t many such baronesses in Shropshire.”
“Right you are. ‘Twill be easy enough to learn their names.”
“I’ve a friend at Westminster who owes me a favor. I’ll have him digging through the land records by noon tomorrow.” This generous offer came from Mr. Statham as far as Henry could determine.
“She loved to dance, Miss Connie did.”
“Terribly quiet, she was.”
Henry gave up trying to differentiate one voice from the next and simply listened as his family provided clues to the identity of a lost girl’s mother.
“All of Lydia’s angels were shy little creatures.”
&nb
sp; “I don’t know that Connie was shy so much as reserved.”
“Forever watching the goings on around her.”
“She had such large eyes.”
“All the better to spot a good catch.”
“Except she left Town before the season was truly over and never returned.”
“Now we know why.”
“I don’t recall hearing as to whether or not she married.”
“I believe I heard that her father married her off to an Irish fellow who’d been given a minor title for services rendered to the crown.”
“Right you are, an older man puffed up on his own importance.”
“Kildare was his name, if I’m not mistaken.”
“The Earl of Kildare.”
“Not so minor a title.”
“No, no. Kildare married another chit.”
“Might be I am wrong, but it’s worth looking into.”
“It was a tradesman Miss Connie wed, dapper little fellow by the name of Smythe.”
“I think I attended their wedding, a decidedly shabby affair in Hertfordshire.”
“Thomas Carlton, who married my nephew Fred’s girl, sits on the merchants’ guild. I’ll have him poke his nose into things to see what’s what.”
“There is a woman by the name of Connie Winters who donates her time at the Foundling Hospital.”
“Wouldn’t that just take the cake, her helping the orphans?”
“She would be about the right age and hails from Shropshire. Pretty little lady with blonde hair and blue eyes. A spinster she is and whispered to be the spurned daughter of a baron or some such.”
“I will be visiting the Foundling Hospital tomorrow and shall make inquiries.”
As if by some secret signal known only to his relations, the conversation wound down until only Lady Morris and Lord Piedmont were speaking.
“Dinner is served,” Olivia called out, taking advantage of the lull in the noise level.
Gray heads swiveled, stooped bodies shifted, gnarled hands grasped available elbows for balance as the aging aristocrats turned, shuffling and separating much like a curtain falls away on opening night at the theater.
