by Brenda Hiatt
A week of estate business had done nothing to drive Violet Turpin from his thoughts, nor had continually reminding himself of his obligation to Miss Simpson. Eager though he’d been to see Miss Turpin again, he feared doing so would only make his foolish obsession worse.
“Here we are, number seven.” Killer halted before the narrow row house, similar to the others on the street. “Shall I ring the bell?”
Rush hesitated on the pavement. “Now I think on it, my first call on arriving in Town should be to Miss Simpson. Suppose word got round that I visited Miss Turpin before paying my respects there?”
Killer regarded him quizzically. “You still mean to go through with the match, then? You said not a word about it during our journey to Town.”
“I made the offer, so can scarcely cry off now,” Rush pointed out irritably. “Nor is there any reason I would. Miss Simpson is well enough looking and behaved, with no faults I’m aware of.”
“And…you consider those qualities sufficient to justify spending a lifetime with her? I would never dream of offering for a girl I didn’t hold in considerable affection.”
Rush smiled, ignoring the pang his friend’s words gave him. “Ah, but you were always much more of a romantic than I. You and Miss Turpin share that trait, so maybe you should consider a match there.” Why that thought bothered him so, he refused to examine.
“Can’t pretend I don’t admire her,” Killer admitted, “but once she’s surrounded by other suitors, I’m not likely to fare well by comparison.”
“Oh, come!” Rush chided him as they made their way toward Cavendish Square and the Simpson house. “Any woman who would refuse you merely due to a lack of inches is hardly one worth having.”
Killer snorted. “Easy enough to say, for a man who tops six feet. Nay, if I’m to snag m’self a bride, as Mother keeps pestering me to do, my holdings will likely serve as a better lure than my person.”
“Mind you don’t fall prey to a pretty fortune hunter, then,” Rush cautioned, for it was true that Killer was exceedingly wealthy—wealthier than himself, for all Rush held the higher title. “They quite abound in London, you know.”
Now his friend looked hurt. “Give me credit for more sense than that. Think you I don’t know the difference between flattery and sincere interest? I’ve experienced more than enough of the former to spot it straight off. Easy to do when the lady spouting pretty phrases keeps casting her eyes over my head at gentlemen of superior stature, if inferior fortune.”
Rush could think of no way to further reassure his friend without sounding patronizing, so remained silent until they reached the Simpson residence a few moments later. There they discovered Lady Simpson and her daughter on the point of leaving the house.
“Why, Lord Rushford!” Lady Simpson exclaimed. “How delightful to see you. We are exceedingly flattered you should come to call on your very first morning in Town, for I heard from my maid that you only returned to Town last night. Her sister is in service in Brook Street, at the house next to yours. How unlucky that my daughter and I are off to do some shopping just now. Mary, are you not pleased to see Lord Rushford?”
The diminutive blonde’s assent was nearly inaudible but she curtseyed most properly, first to Rush, then to Killer, whom Rush now introduced to the ladies.
“I knew your mother fairly well some years ago, Lord Killerby,” Lady Simpson said to the viscount. “Is she in London for the Season as well?”
“She spoke of coming later, perhaps in a month or so,” he replied. “Meanwhile, I am honored to make your acquaintance, Lady Simpson, Miss Simpson.” He bowed to each in turn. “Might we perhaps escort you to wherever it is you are going?”
Lady Simpson delightedly accepted the offer and a moment later the four of them stepped into the waiting carriage.
“I must say, this attention is most welcome, Lord Rushford,” Lady Simpson remarked as the coachman whipped up the horses. “My daughter once or twice expressed doubts as to whether you meant to honor your offer, given how long it is since we have seen you. She is so modest, you see, always undervaluing her worth. This, I hope, has allayed your fears on that score, Mary?”
Miss Simpson directed an alarmed glance Rush’s way before again casting her eyes downward with a small nod.
“Such a sweet, biddable girl,” Lady Simpson declared with a doting smile for her daughter. “Why, I cannot count how many influential ladies of the ton—and some gentlemen, too—have told me what an exceptional wife she will make one day. Without giving specifics, as nothing can be official yet, I assured them that her prospects on that score are excellent.” This last was said with a sidelong glance at Rush.
He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. I can safely say that I personally have never heard even the slightest criticism of Miss Simpson. Which I’m sure speaks very highly of her.”
“Indeed it does,” agreed Lady Simpson. “For you must know as well as I how eager the London gossips are to create scandal out of the least thing. Any young lady wishing to keep her reputation pristine would do well to take my Mary as a pattern, as she never steps even a toe out of line. Some, I know, are not nearly so circumspect. Why, I recall one particular incident last Season—”
“Aye, those gossips love to blow even tiny missteps out of all proportion,” Lord Killerby quickly put in. “Shame, really, for I hate to see a young lady’s name dragged through the mud for nothing more than youthful high spirits.”
Rush shot Killer a grateful glance. He’d been as alarmed as his friend that Lady Simpson might be on the point of relating one of Violet Turpin’s exploits from the previous Season.
“What do you ladies go in search of today?” Rush asked, mainly to change the topic. “I confess that to my untutored eye you both already appear turned out to full advantage.”
Lady Simpson preened at the compliment before detailing the various purchases they hoped to make. “Mary is also due to be fitted for three new gowns, for our invitations are already flowing in. You may rest assured that she will do full credit to her future station in life.” Another significant glance at Lord Rushford accompanied her words.
However ambivalent Rush’s feelings might be, it was clear Miss Simpson’s mother considered their eventual marriage a fait accompli, of which only the date was in doubt. Had he spent more time around Lady Simpson before proposing to her daughter, he might not have— He broke off the thought, for it scarcely mattered now.
“I presume you ladies will not require our assistance while shopping?” he said when they reached Bond Street.
“I suppose not,” Lady Simpson admitted with obvious reluctance. “However, I know Mary would appreciate it immensely if you could return to escort us back home.”
Rush hesitated, for he still had much to do that day, but realized furthering his acquaintance with Miss Simpson should take precedence. “Of course, if you wish.”
“We mean to conclude our shopping with Mary’s fitting at Madame Fanchot’s, so we will await you there in two hours’ time, my lord.” At a stern glance from her mother, Miss Simpson nodded her agreement, murmuring something that was again inaudible.
With a parting bow, Rush and Killer bade the two ladies good day and made their escape, temporary as it was to be.
“Pretty little thing, your countess-to-be,” Killer commented as they walked to a nearby coffee shop.
“Aye, and I certainly could not ask for a more biddable girl. The prospect of such a mother-in-law, however…”
Killer chuckled. “No worse than my own mother, I daresay. I receive that sort of prodding about the desirability of marriage all the time, I assure you.”
Rush chose not to reply. Though he could not deny a certain similarity between Lady Killerby’s managing ways and Lady Simpson’s, the comparison did nothing to reassure him.
Despite her urging them to depart early, a full hour passed before Aunt Philomena finally noticed the time and sent for the carriage. “The coachman should be waiting by the time you ge
t downstairs,” she said, shooing them off to shop.
Violet much preferred to walk, though she knew better than to say so to her aunt. When they stepped outdoors a few minutes later, she told the driver to return the carriage to the mews .
“After so many days’ travel I am more than ready for a bit of exercise and fresh air,” she told Brigid as they headed toward Bond Street. “Aren’t you?”
Her maid nodded, looking around with wide eyes. “I never knowed Lunnon was so big,” she whispered in awestruck tones.
“I forgot you were asleep when we arrived last night,” Violet said. “All the more reason to walk, for one cannot experience London properly cooped up in a carriage.”
As proof of that, Violet noticed many things along the way she had missed before—vendors on street corners selling flowers or bunches of herbs, or offering to sharpen scissors and knives. And the horses! Heavy dray horses pulling carts, smartly matched pairs drawing equally smart phaetons, prime bloods with leather-booted gentlemen on their backs—Violet loved them all. She didn’t even mind the smells, scarcely noticed when riding in Aunt Philomena’s stuffy coach last year.
A small urchin obligingly swept the first crossing they came to and Violet rewarded him with a penny and a smile. The delighted child gave her a gap-toothed grin in return.
“Really, things could not have fallen out more perfectly,” she reflected with satisfaction as they neared their destination. “Once Aunt Philomena leaves for Brighton, we shall have the house to ourselves and all of London to enjoy as we please.”
“I still don’t like it, Miss.” Brigid glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I overheard the housekeeper asking one of the other servants why neither of us brought our abigails. Should she mention it to Lady Puttercroft, she’s bound to ask questions and then it will all come out.”
Violet chuckled. “No one can mention anything to my aunt, for she never gives them a chance. Remember what she said about her physician? We need only keep up the pretense until morning and everything will be fine—though perhaps after she’s gone we should bring the servants in on the scheme.”
“Happen we’ll have to, or I dasn’t talk again the whole time we’re here.”
“I’m sure you’ll learn to speak more properly in time, but I suggest you stay silent while we do our shopping. Madame Fanchot has the ear of every gossipmonger in Town. If word of what we are doing got around to someone like Lady Mountheath, it could wreck all.”
“Who is Lady Mountheath?”
“The most spiteful gossip in all of London. She never misses a chance to destroy a reputation, given the least ammunition. It was she who spread word of my, ah, little departures from convention last year, prompting Aunt Philomena to send me away. She has two shrewish daughters who are nigh as bad as their mother and like to get worse as they age into spinsters.”
Brigid looked more frightened than ever. “I do wish you’d give over trying to make me out something I’m not, Miss.”
Violet sent her abigail a look both sympathetic and exasperated. “I wanted to give you a bit of fun, Brigid, but I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.”
“I know, Miss, and I’m that grateful. But I’m no lady and never mean to be. Anyways, from what little I’ve seen of the world, I’m like to have more freedom as I am. Ladies like yourself have ever so many Society rules to follow.”
“True enough,” Violet agreed with a laugh. “Not that I’m particularly good at following them. If you really would prefer not to take part in this charade, you may hide in your room when we get back. I’ll tell Aunt Philomena you have the headache so you need not play the role of Dina again.”
To that Brigid eagerly agreed.
It occurred to Violet that she could use a similar excuse once her aunt left for Brighton. By claiming Lady Puttercroft was indisposed, she might convince some eligible gentleman to escort her about Town in her stead. One of her brother’s friends, perhaps. Julian Bigsby should be in London now, as well.
Upon their entering Madame Fanchot’s establishment, the famed modiste and two of her assistants came forward to greet them.
“Ah, Miss Turpin, how lovely to see you again!” the proprietress exclaimed in a distinctly French accent. “I was quite disappointed last Season that you were unable to come for your final fitting before leaving Town, but you see I remembered your size and preferences perfectly.” She gestured to a table spread with shimmering satins, silks and muslins in shades somewhat brighter than most debutantes wore.
“And this must be Mrs. Turpin, the one Lady Puttercroft told me about.” She turned to Brigid, who instantly looked anxious again. “What a delight she will be to dress, with such vivid auburn hair.”
Violet was about to tell the modiste about the girl’s fictitious cold when an interruption occurred.
“Is that Miss Turpin?” came a voice from behind her.
Violet looked around. “Lady Simpson, how nice to see you. Is Mary, er, Miss Simpson with you?”
“Aye, she is being fitted up for a few gowns.” Lady Simpson gestured toward a back room. “Your aunt said you would be in Town this week. I promised her we would call when you arrived.”
“Yes, she mentioned it over breakfast. Alas, she was feeling indisposed, so did not accompany me this morning.”
Lady Simpson clucked her tongue sympathetically, then turned a curious glance on Brigid. “I take it this is your brother’s new wife? Lady Puttercroft said she would be sharing her duty as chaperone this Season. Is this your first visit to London, Mrs. Turpin?”
With a distressed glance at Violet, Brigid mutely nodded.
“I fear my sister-in-law is somewhat indisposed as well,” Violet said quickly. “That is, she recently suffered a violent cold, and has not yet recovered the use of her voice. She is otherwise feeling quite well, however—or so she assures me.”
“Well, I’ll not keep you from your shopping,” Lady Simpson said after expressing appropriate sympathy toward Brigid. “I must see how Mary is getting on with her fitting. I know she will be delighted to see you when she is finished.”
She moved off toward the back of the shop and Violet breathed a small sigh of relief at having passed the first test of her plan. As there no longer seemed a need to have expensive gowns made up for Brigid, Violet suggested Madame Fanchot begin with herself. Any extra money could go toward baby clothes.
The modiste was quick to oblige and soon Violet had the fun of sorting through the very latest patterns and fabrics. She had already selected two lengths of satin, one of calico, and a rich lilac velvet for a second riding habit when Mary Simpson finally emerged from her fitting.
The two young ladies greeted each other warmly while Lady Simpson eyed Violet’s fabric choices with raised brows.
“Are not some of those rather, ah, colorful for an unmarried lady like yourself?” she inquired, fingering a magenta silk. “Or are these for Mrs. Turpin?”
The magenta would clash horribly with Brigid’s hair—or Dina’s, for that matter—though it would complement Violet’s own coloring nicely. Alas, most would consider it inappropriate for a debutante.
“Actually—” she began, when the outer door to the shop opened and two gentlemen walked in.
Violet’s breath caught in her throat on seeing Lord Rushford for the first time since their kiss at Ivy Lodge. A swirl of conflicting emotions engulfed her: embarrassment, renewed appreciation of how very handsome he was…and panic.
Both he and Lord Killerby, who was with him, were quite well acquainted with Dina. There would be no deceiving them about Brigid’s identity! Pinning on what she hoped was a carefree smile, she frantically tried to think her way out of this pickle.
Chapter Seven
Rush stopped cold on unexpectedly encountering the girl who had dominated his dreams so much of late. Completely unprepared for the flood of sensations that assailed him, he had to fight to retain his composure when Lady Simpson turned to him with a smile.
“I must s
ay, your timing is impeccable, my lords,” she exclaimed as he and Lord Killerby entered the shop. “Mary has only just finished with her fittings and, as you see, she is renewing a previous acquaintance.”
Rush was still too stunned to respond immediately. Fortunately, Killer filled the breach before his hesitation could become obvious.
“Why, Miss Turpin! We had no idea you would be here as well. What a stroke of luck. We were going to call on you later today, were we not, Rush?”
Lord Rushford finally found his voice. “Er, yes. Yes, we were. This is…a happy surprise indeed.”
“Oh! I take it you both have a prior acquaintance with Miss Turpin?” Lady Simpson asked in surprise.
Miss Turpin spoke for the first time since their arrival, her voice nearly as unsteady as Rush’s. “Yes, my lady. They are…both old friends of my brother’s.”
“Aye, we were all together in the Shires recently,” Killer added. “I must say, Miss Turpin, our last hunts were not nearly so enjoyable without you.”
Lady Simpson’s brows rose even higher. “Never tell me you actually participated in a fox hunt, Miss Turpin?”
Rather than dissemble, she nodded. “I did indeed, my lady, more than once. I enjoyed it immensely.”
“Put the rest of us to shame, she did,” Killer declared. “Pity more ladies don’t hunt, if you ask me.”
Though Lady Simpson looked positively scandalized, her daughter gazed admiringly at Miss Turpin.
“I do wish I could have seen it. You always were the brave one, Violet, as I well remember from when we were at Miss Gebhart’s together.” It was the longest sentence Rush had ever heard Miss Simpson utter.
“Perhaps you can visit the Shires next autumn, Mary,” Miss Turpin suggested. “I mean to go again, if my brother will allow it.”
Before Miss Simpson could respond, her mother intervened. “My daughter will do no such thing. Pray do not encourage her to follow your example, Miss Turpin, for I recall all too well your lamentable tendency to disregard convention. No doubt that is why Lady Puttercroft was so happy your sister-in-law would be here to help keep an eye on you this Season.”
