Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Anne almost wished she could call Philip, George, and Harry back into the sitting room. “After today’s excitement, I think a quiet evening at home would be more in order.”

  In the normal course of things, Clorinda might be correct; if the hostess was anyone other than Lady Brentwood, Anne would agree to attend. The woman seemed very pleasant, but Anne had no desire to attend an event with Lord Brentwood present. And to expose Evie to him—no, it didn’t bear thinking of.

  She repressed a shudder. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with that family. “It is not as if Evie has never been about in polite society, Clorinda. She’s attended any number of events at home.”

  Clorinda snorted, sending some cake crumbs tumbling down her bodice. “Bah, the country! Bears no resemblance at all to London society—as different as chalk from cheese. Far too many girls come to Town thinking they can go on as they did in the country and fall flat on their faces—figuratively speaking for the most part—at their first ball.”

  Evie leaned forward in her chair. “I’m not tired, Anne,” she said, “and Cousin Clorinda may be right. Perhaps it would be good for me to get my feet wet in this small pond”—she smiled—“or puddle, really. Lady Brentwood was very nice when we met her at the dressmaker’s shop. I think I’d like to go.”

  “But what would you wear?” Anne saw a possible winning argument. Evie wasn’t vain, but she appreciated beautiful clothes. “Our dresses haven’t arrived yet.”

  “Oh.” Her sister looked crestfallen. Anne steeled her heart. She knew beyond a doubt it was best they both avoid this gathering.

  Clorinda helped herself to another slice of cake. “I’m sure you have something you can wear. It is only a small party after all. Marion understands you’ve just arrived in Town.”

  Anne took advantage of Clorinda’s full mouth. “Lady Brentwood may understand, but what about her guests? London is bristling with gossips.”

  Unfortunately, Clorinda was a fast and efficient chewer. “As you learned this morning to your detriment, my girl.”

  Anne flushed. She’d momentarily forgotten about Lady Dunlee.

  “It will be good for you to face the smaller dose of gossip you’ll encounter this evening, Anne,” Clorinda said, looking almost sympathetic. “You can see which way the wind is blowing and prepare yourself. Better to face a few old cats now so you’re ready for the ballroom full you’ll encounter in a day or two. You don’t wish to be taken unawares—that would be fatal.”

  Anne had a vivid mental picture of a roomful of hissing, snarling felines, from barn cats to she-lions, fur on end, tails twitching, massed and waiting to shred her to pieces with their claws.

  She must have moaned aloud, because Evie leaned forward and put a comforting hand on her knee. “Don’t worry, Anne. Surely Mr. Parker-Roth will be there to support you.”

  He wouldn’t be. He’d be at Lord Kenderly’s. She hadn’t mentioned that invitation to Clorinda since it had not arrived—just as the dresses he’d assured her would come from Madam Celeste’s had not. Mr. Parker-Roth with his false promises was proving no better than Brentwood. She only hoped he came through for the boys. He couldn’t be so cruel as to raise their hopes if he had no intention of fulfilling them, could he?

  “Hmph.” Clorinda inspected the sweets tray again. She had finished all the seed cake, so she selected a piece of gingerbread. “I wouldn’t bet on Mr. Parker-Roth’s attendance, though Marion did invite him, of course.”

  Anne sat up straighter. “I wasn’t counting on seeing him. I’m sure he must have many other engagements.”

  Clorinda raised an eyebrow. “Only one engagement I’m aware of.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “Temper, temper,” Clorinda said, wagging her finger. “You have to smile and look bored no matter what anyone says to you.”

  “But surely you’re mistaken about Mr. Parker-Roth, Cousin.” Evie sounded shocked. “And you too, Anne. Why wouldn’t he come?”

  Clorinda shrugged, popping the gingerbread in her mouth. “He’s the King of Hearts. He’s adept at slipping out of uncomfortable situations.”

  “But he’s quite taken with Anne.”

  “No, he’s not, Evie.” Anne reached for her teacup, but pulled her hand back when she realized how badly it was shaking.

  Everyone—everyone but Evie, that is—must know her betrothal wasn’t going to last. The King of Hearts promising to wed a red-haired, gawky female like herself when he had all of London, if not all of England, at his feet? Not likely.

  Clorinda nodded. “You are too naïve, Evie, that’s why you need some Town polish. The man got caught stealing a kiss. What else was he going to say?” She treated Anne to a pointed look. “Once the Season’s over, people will forget, as long as Anne doesn’t do anything else to disgrace herself.”

  Anne’s stomach sank even more, but Clorinda wasn’t being cruel; she was being candid. It just wasn’t pleasant to hear it.

  “But Clorinda, Mr. Parker-Roth is truly quite taken with Anne.” Evie giggled. “You should have seen them at Madam Celeste’s.”

  Anne closed her eyes briefly. If she died of embarrassment now, she’d save herself weeks of suffering. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “Appearances can be damning, missy,” Clorinda said sternly. “If you behave circumspectly during the Season, I think you can survive this peculiar betrothal. But act like a hoyden and your reputation will be in tatters. The ton have long memories, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Clorinda’s voice gentled. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Anne. The King of Hearts is a genius at making women feel emotions they should not be feeling. Don’t fall prey to his blandishments, my dear. He is very charming, and he will be paying you marked attention, but you must not forget it means nothing. Keep your wits about you. You want people to forget you, not pity you, when there’s no wedding.”

  Anne nodded. She knew Evie was looking at her with big, shocked eyes, but she couldn’t meet her glance—she’d cry if she did. Stupid. Clorinda was just saying what she already knew.

  Thankfully, Clorinda turned her attention back to Evie. “Marion said her son, the marquis, might stop by.” She sniffed. “Well, truthfully, she planned the event partly in the hopes he might see some woman he’d consent to marry.”

  “Lady Brentwood mentioned that.” Anne clenched her hands in her skirts. It was a wonder she hadn’t hit the woman at Madam Celeste’s though, of course, Lady Brentwood had meant no harm. Anne hadn’t considered it before, but it must be hell to be the mother of such a dirty dish. “I got the impression you encouraged her to think I might be a matrimonial candidate.”

  “Well, you are still unwed—and as far as I knew, not spoken for. A twenty-seven-year-old spinster can’t be too choosy.”

  “But the Marquis of Brentwood?” Anne’s stomach twisted.

  Clorinda had the grace to blush. “I can’t say I care much for the man—truthfully, he’s broken Marion’s heart too many times to count—but he is a marquis.” She looked back at Evie. “He’s a peer you can practice on.”

  “Clorinda!” Anne couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “I meant practice her social graces on, of course.”

  “Lord Brentwood is not the sort of person Evie should know.”

  “Of course he’s the sort of person Evie should know, though I grant you he is no longer accepted in the best houses,” Clorinda said, a touch of exasperation in her voice. “He’s a marquis.”

  “But he’s not a nice marquis.” Anne knew she sounded like a goose-cap, but she was desperate. She—and Evie—could not go to this party.

  “Anne, most of the ton isn’t particularly nice. Frankly, they are, for the most part, spineless idiots. I didn’t say Evie should encourage the fellow.”

  “I don’t see how it can hurt to go, Anne,” Evie said. “I’m not a complete ninnyhammer. I won’t be bowled over by a title. Surely you know that.”


  “Yes, but . . .” Damn it, now she was insulting Evie.

  She did know her sister wouldn’t be taken in by Brentwood—Evie was much smarter than Anne had been and, in any event, Anne would be there to see Brentwood didn’t lead Evie astray. The truth was Anne couldn’t bear to see Brentwood again so soon and at such a small event where there would be no hope of avoiding him. “It’s just that—”

  “My lady.” Hobbes entered the room carrying a white square of vellum on a tray. “A note from Lord Kenderly. His servant awaits your reply.”

  Anne sucked in her breath. Could this be the promised invitation? Her heart began to pound.

  “The Earl of Kenderly? What can this be about?” Clorinda snatched the note off the tray and opened it. “My word! Lord Kenderly begs the pleasure of our company at a light repast prior to his ball this evening.”

  Anne was almost dizzy with some odd emotion—a mix of relief and happiness with a touch of ... something else. It looked as if Mr. Parker-Roth was a man of his word—at least in regard to obtaining invitations. Sadly, the dresses weren’t here, but he didn’t have complete control over that. He’d most likely fallen prey to an overambitious estimation of Madam Celeste’s abilities.

  Clorinda was holding the note to her thin bosom. “This is an amazing stroke of luck. How do you suppose we got on Lord Kenderly’s guest list?”

  “I believe Mr. Parker-Roth may have mentioned the possibility when we were with the boys in Hyde Park this afternoon,” Anne said, addressing her hands. She could feel Clorinda’s eyes on her, but she wasn’t about to meet her quite possibly probing look.

  “See, I wasn’t mistaken,” Evie said. “Mr. Parker-Roth is taken with Anne.”

  “Hmm,” Clorinda said. “It is certainly very kind of him to arrange this—the ball will be the event of the Season, and if Lord and Lady Kenderly take you up, Evie . . . Well, they are the best ton, you know.”

  “Then shall I tell Lord Kenderly’s footman you will attend, my lady?”

  “Yes, indeed, Hobbes. We cannot turn this opportunity down. Oh, and do send my regrets to Lady Brentwood.”

  Anne was torn between relief and panic. At least now she wouldn’t have to face Brentwood, but she would be pitchforked in amongst another group of the ton—and she still had no suitable ball gown. She’d never cared much about her clothes—serviceable was all that mattered—but the thought of wearing the drab gown she’d had for at least five years was unaccountably depressing . . . especially as Mr. Parker-Roth would see her in it.

  Hobbes paused on the threshold. “I’m afraid with all the excitement today I forgot to mention packages from Madam Celeste’s establishment arrived while we were out searching for the boys. One of the housemaids put them aside. Shall I have them sent up to your rooms now, Lady Anne?”

  Evie clapped her hands; Anne almost did. “Yes, please, Hobbes.”

  “And should I also tell Lord Kenderly’s footman that you accept Mr. Parker-Roth’s escort this evening? I was given to understand Mr. Parker-Roth was at Lord Kenderly’s home when the invitation was sent.”

  “Yes, Hobbes,” Clorinda said, “that would be fine.”

  “What did I tell you,” Evie said once Hobbes was out of earshot. “Anne’s betrothal is not a sham.”

  Clorinda looked at Anne thoughtfully. “I admit Mr. Parker-Roth is making some effort to give that appearance.”

  If only it were more than appearance, Anne thought, as she and Evie went upstairs to examine Madam Celeste’s packages.

  Chapter 7

  “So tell me why I had to invite Crane’s daughters to this evening’s blasted festivities?” Damian Weston, Earl of Kenderly, poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Stephen, sprawled in a comfortable leather wing chair by the fire in Damian’s study. Damian lowered himself into the matching chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing his ankles. “I didn’t know you were an intimate of Crane’s.”

  “I’m not.”

  “A friend of Lady Crane, then?”

  “No.” Stephen took a sip of his brandy. If Damian had been to White’s or Tatt’s or anywhere the men of the beau monde congregated instead of holed up here working on some obscure Latin translation, he’d already know the story.

  Why couldn’t Stephen just tell him the whole now? He’d have to do so before Anne arrived this evening.

  The words stuck in his throat. The thing seemed reasonable when he was with Anne—and after Lady Dunlee had caught them in the square, he hadn’t felt he’d had any options—but now . . . Damian would either call him a fool or fall on the floor laughing—or both.

  It didn’t help that just a few weeks ago he’d teased Damian about his precipitous marriage here in this very room.

  “They’re new to Town—just arrived yesterday—and don’t know anyone. Their cousin Miss Clorinda Strange is nominally their chaperone, though the older sister, Lady Anne, looks to be saddled with the real work of bringing Lady Evangeline out.”

  “I see.” Damian looked at him over the rim of his brandy glass before taking a swallow. “And when did you establish the Benevolent Society for the Welfare of Young, Marriageable Misses? I confess I missed the announcement.”

  Stephen shifted in his chair. “I just thought these girls could use a hand.”

  “Oh?”

  Silence was one of Damian’s tricks. He’d make a noncommittal, questioning sort of sound and wait for his victim to fill the void with noise—usually incriminating words.

  Stephen kept his mouth tightly closed and stared back.

  Damian’s lips twitched. “Don’t want to tell me, hmm? I’ll find out, you know.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m sure I’ll tell you shortly. It’s all over Town anyway—which you’d know if you ever went out.”

  Damian laughed and blessedly turned his penetrating gaze to the fire. “I have heard the younger daughter is quite beautiful.”

  “She is—and she’s barely out of the schoolroom.”

  “Yet old enough to wed. That’s why she’s here, isn’t it? To find herself a husband.”

  “Perhaps. Certainly to get some Town polish.”

  Damian’s voice was suspiciously bland. “And you’re going to help with the polishing.”

  His tone rankled. “I am not interested in Lady Evangeline.”

  “Oh, ho.” Damian regarded Stephen, eyebrow raised. “The gentleman doth protest too much, me-thinks.”

  Stephen had an irrational urge to plant his fist between Damian’s eyes. “Good God, you are by far the most annoying of my friends, Kenderly.”

  Laughter came from the study doorway, and Damian’s face assumed the besotted expression Stephen had come to expect whenever the earl heard or saw his wife. They stood to greet Lady Kenderly.

  “Of course Mr. Parker-Roth isn’t interested in Lady Evangeline, Damian,” she said, stepping in and closing the door behind her. “How could he be? He’s betrothed to her older sister.”

  Damian let out a long, low whistle and his damn eyebrows just about disappeared into his hairline.

  “I was going to get around to telling you,” Stephen said.

  “Then please excuse me for stealing your news, sir,” Lady Kenderly said, coming over to them, “and for intruding into your private meeting as well.” She glanced at Damian. “I did knock, but I suppose you were too immersed in your conversation to hear me.”

  Damian took his wife’s hand and brought it to his lips. “You are always welcome wherever I am, Jo.”

  Stephen averted his eyes; watching his friend act the devoted husband was not the most edifying of sights. Hard to imagine, but Damian used to be a very rational fellow.

  Fortunately he would never be such a love struck noddy. No, selecting a bride by accident—when the bride was a sensible, capable female like Lady Anne—was a very good thing.

  He glanced again at Lady Kenderly. He hadn’t spent a lot of time with her, but she seemed somehow different this evening. She was tall and slender . . .
r />   Hmm . . . perhaps not so slender?

  “What brings you here, my love?” Damian asked as he helped his wife into the chair he’d just vacated.

  She laughed again. “Disaster in the kitchens!”

  Damian scowled. “This infernal ball! You know I told you you shouldn’t undertake such an exhausting project, not in your condition.”

  Ah, ha, so old Damian had been his usual efficient self, getting his lovely wife with child without wasting a moment.

  Lady Kenderly smiled and patted her chair arm. “Do sit down and stop glowering at me, dear. I am not exhausted. Your inestimable housekeeper is handling all, smoothing Cook’s ruffled feathers as she’s done for years, long before I came on the scene.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Completely.” She grinned. “Though just in case I am wrong, I have come here to hide until the storm blows over.”

  Damian wasn’t totally mollified. “You know we could easily cancel the whole business, disinvite everyone, and spend a quiet evening together.”

  “I know no such thing! We would upset countless people—even disappoint a few, I imagine—as well as set our own house in an uproar. If you think Cook is displeased now, I shudder to consider what she will say if you tell her all her work was for naught.” Lady Kenderly looked at Stephen. “And of course Cook wouldn’t say a word to Damian; she would never consider speaking directly to the Master! But depend on it, we would all suffer.”

  Stephen smiled. “Surely your cook would not complain if you are in a delicate condition?”

  Lady Kenderly blushed.

  “Ah, so you noticed my slip, did you?” Damian said. “We have not made the news public—it’s still early days yet, you know.”

  “And you think I would blab the story all over Town? I am not one to bruit your business about as I would hope you’d know.”

  Damian caught Stephen’s gaze and held it. “As neither am I one to do so about your affairs. What is your interest in Crane’s older daughter, Stephen? You know you can trust Jo and me. Indeed, you’ve asked our help by including the ladies on our guest list tonight.”