The Fugitive Heiress

by Amanda Scott

  “To my way of thinking,” Varling opined, “General Ludd is mythical, a rallying point and nothing more.”

  The statement might have opened a whole new debate, but by this time Lady Stanthorpe managed to surface long enough from her own conversation to notice the change in atmosphere. She jumped to her feet and demanded to know what was toward. “For I won’t have you unsettling Tony’s homecoming with a lot of gloomy talk,” she assured them. “Nothing but cheer, you lot, or out you go!”

  Coming as it did from such a small lady, her head thrust belligerently forward and her arms akimbo, the vehement threat caused a great deal of merriment. The gentlemen obligingly turned the conversation onto a more cheerful course, but it was not long before an unspoken signal from Dambroke, who had been keeping a close eye on his friend, urged a general departure. Catheryn, following closely behind the earl with his mother and sister as they moved to bid their hostess farewell, overheard Lady Stanthorpe’s expressions of deep gratitude when she grasped Dambroke’s outstretched hand.

  He smiled down at the little countess. “It is my pleasure, ma’am,” he replied. “He is doing very well, I think, but still must not overtax himself.”

  “Oh, I know, and the company has done him good, but he insists he will dance at your mother’s ball, my lord.”

  “He has great determination, ma’am. We’ll just see he does nothing foolish in the meantime. I shall visit often to help keep him in line. Now, I am keeping you from your duties as hostess. Come, ladies.” He held out his arm to Lady Dambroke. Tears of gratitude lingered in Lady Stanthorpe’s eyes as she wished them good day. Catheryn noted them and smiled approvingly at Dambroke when he helped her into the carriage. He grinned back, clearly having forgotten that he was supposed to be out of charity with her.

  VI

  THERE WERE FREQUENT VISITS to Stanthorpe House in the days ahead, while Captain Varling continued to recuperate. Tiffany went every day, often escorted by her brother, and Catheryn thought they seemed to be on excellent terms with each other for once. Though nothing was heard from Sir Horace regarding her fortune, she did receive a curt reply from her aunt, acknowledging receipt of her note, while Lady Dambroke received a more gracious approval of her invitation.

  The earl sent Blaze down to Dambroke Park, and over the weekend a spirited bay mare called Psyche came up to town for Catheryn’s use. Tiffany still accompanied her on morning rides but now seemed to do so more on Catheryn’s account than on her own. They often met Mr. Lawrence. Catheryn found him rather intriguing and had no difficulty understanding Tiffany’s attraction to the man. He was slim, above average in height, and possessed of a boyish face that belied his thirty years. She thought his boots might have been the better for a bit of polish, and he had an irritating habit of pushing his fingers through his thinning, sandy hair, but he knew the trick of charm and displayed flattering interest in every word that dropped from Tiffany’s lips.

  He seemed to credit Tiffany’s rather casual attitude on these occasions to Catheryn’s ubiquity and twice brought along his foppish friend, Lucas Markham, whose obvious purpose was to draw Catheryn away from Tiffany. Mr. Markham, sporting red silk boot-tops and an intricately tied pastel neckcloth, was just the sort of simpering beau Catheryn found most ridiculous. She turned a deaf ear to his more subtle hints and once, when he openly suggested that they drop behind the others, stared at him in such wide-eyed astonishment that the fop actually blushed. Mr. Lawrence became more visibly frustrated. It did not seem to occur to him that Tiffany made no move to abet his tactics, if she was even aware of them, but cheerfully included both Catheryn and Lucas Markham in her conversation.

  There was only one small contretemps between Dambroke and his sister, and that occurred several days before Catheryn’s debut at Almack’s, when Tiffany announced that she would need a new gown for the occasion. Smiling, Dambroke informed her that she could manage very well with one of the many frocks already crowding her wardrobe. She looked mutinous, but he saved the situation by offering his escort to Stanthorpe House if she didn’t dawdle.

  When she accompanied them on these visits, Catheryn amused herself by observing the relationships of the company, one to the other. She noted that Tiffany had a decided interest in Captain Varling; but, since he treated her with the same teasing affection he bestowed upon his sister, she wasn’t sure that he returned Tiffany’s regard. As for the earl and Maggie, again Catheryn couldn’t be sure, although she realized that Tiffany, not knowing of Captain Varling’s return, had misinterpreted Dambroke’s visits to Sussex. It was true that he flirted with Maggie, but Maggie divided her flirtations equally among all the males in the room, or in any room where Catheryn chanced to meet her. Lord Thomas seemed equally interested in Lady Margaret—also heiress to a tidy fortune—and in Tiffany.

  Catheryn dismissed Tom Varling as too young to have a decided interest in females and didn’t waste much thought on either of the younger girls, but Lady Prudence interested her. She had called the day following their first meeting, bringing her elder sister, Patience, Lady Easton, to meet Catheryn. Lady Dambroke had gone to a loo party, and Tiffany and his lordship were at Stanthorpe House, so Catheryn received the two visitors alone. Her expressive face gave away her thoughts when the introductions were made, and Lady Prudence’s low, melodic chuckle broke out as she settled upon her chair.

  “Isn’t it absurd, Miss Westering? My mother has a fit of the dismals whenever she has to introduce us all at once. We are, in descending order, Patience, Prudence, Piety, Chastity, Honour and Promise.” She laughed when Catheryn’s eyes widened in dismay, and Lady Easton grinned broadly.

  “Good gracious!” Catheryn exclaimed.

  “It really is dreadful,” Lady Easton confirmed. “My father’s elder sister eloped to Gretna Green with a nobody at the age of sixteen. Her reputation was ruined, of course, and Papa decided his own daughters would not suffer the same fate if they were blessed with virtuous names. Mama held out against him, but to no avail. And none of us except Prue lives up to her name at all.”

  “Are you so prudent?” Catheryn asked with a twinkle. Prudence opened her mouth, but the older girl spoke first.

  “Indeed she is! And as a result is practically on the shelf. No, Prue, don’t interrupt. You know it’s true. You’ve had offer upon offer, or did before you let Piety get married before you. Now you will just dwindle into an … an aunt!”

  Lady Prudence smiled the slow smile that lit up her face. “Pay her no heed, Miss Westering. Patience simply cannot understand that the London beaux, so far at least, do not interest me. When the right man comes along, I shall know it, never fear. I’ll not end my days as a spinster aunt.”

  Catheryn believed her and soon came to think of her as a good friend. She made others as she was whisked by her hostesses from one entertainment to another. Hardly a day passed without morning calls, evening parties, shopping, and promenades. She saw and met many members of London’s Beau Monde and was amused by their idiosyncracies—Poodle Byng driving in Hyde Park with his dog up beside him; Lord Petersham, who refused to set foot outside his house till after six o’clock; Lady Caroline Lamb, notorious for her outrageous pursuit of the poet Lord Byron; and Lord Alvanley, who had removed his door knocker in an attempt to confound dunning creditors. The famous Beau Brummell, arbiter of fashion and manners, was out of town, but she heard a good deal about him, wherever she went. He complained about his gout because it attacked his favorite leg and broke off his engagement because the lady liked cabbage. Catheryn thought he must be a trifle odd. She enjoyed everything, but the highlight was yet to come.

  Her second Wednesday in London dawned bright and clear, and she awoke with a grin of anticipation. Tonight she was going to Almack’s, which, despite its many rules, was still the seventh heaven of the fashionable world. She spent the morning washing her hair and attending to final details of her dress; and, when Tiffany insisted, despite her protests, upon lending her a string of pearls, she agreed. They rel
axed later with Mrs. Radcliffe’s latest novel from the subscription library and joined Lady Dambroke for an early dinner. His lordship having engaged to dine at Stanthorpe House, it was assumed that he would remain there to bear Captain Varling company, since Lady Stanthorpe and Maggie also meant to attend the Assembly.

  After dinner the three ladies retired to prepare for the evening. Mary helped, and Catheryn was soon ready. She wore a simple bright blue dress with a high waist, puffed sleeves, and a demitrain. The white spider gauze overskirt had a scalloped hem with knots of blue satin ribbon. The sash, its ends trailing into the train, was of matching ribbon, while yet another strip was threaded through curls piled artfully atop her head. She finished buttoning her long white gloves, asked Mary to be certain the pearl rosettes were fastened firmly to each blue satin slipper, took a final turn before the mirror, and declared herself ready.

  Mary exclaimed that she would fair take the shine out of everyone, and Catheryn chuckled. But, draping her satin evening cloak over her arm, she proceeded downstairs feeling quite the grand lady. The front hall was empty except for Morris, who was lighting tapers in the wall sconces. He turned to watch as she descended the last few steps. Then he grinned and, taking the liberty of a wink, said, “Miss Catheryn, there won’t be one to compare!”

  She twinkled back at him. “I thank you, sir. I do so adore flattery.” He grinned again, and then his face went properly blank as his mistress came down the stairs.

  “Catheryn, how quick you are!” exclaimed the countess. “I quite intended to be before you, for I know how you young things tend to get the fidgets at times like this.”

  “Never mind, ma’am,” Catheryn replied, smiling. “I’m much too excited to be nervous. And anyway, I have been talking with Morris.” That young man, his ears crimson, applied a name to the last candle and effaced himself. The countess watched him go, her brows wrinkled in a frown.

  “I do wish you would not be so familiar with the servants, my dear,” she reproved. “It is not at all … good heavens!” she broke off. “Richard!”

  Catheryn turned to see his lordship, complete to a shade in a black velvet coat, knee breeches, white clocked stockings, and black shoes, descending the stair. He looked very handsome, she thought, very debonair. He smiled, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. “Well, Mother?”

  “But, Richard, this is wonderful!” she exclaimed. “So you intend to give us escort after all.”

  “As you see.” He turned warmly to Catheryn. “My compliments, Miss Westering. That style becomes you. I shall be pleased to offer escort to three such charming … uh, there are three of you, are there not?” He raised his quizzing glass.

  “Indeed there are,” replied the countess. “Whatever is keeping your sister? Ah, here she is now,” she added, sighting her daughter on the half-landing. “Come, Tiffany, we are ready. Dambroke has decided to bear us company, as you see.”

  Tiffany’s color rose and a myriad of expressions played across her countenance, chief among which were dismay and annoyance, though Catheryn detected a hint of fear as well.

  “I thought you were visiting Captain Varling,” Tiffany muttered.

  Dambroke, too, had been watching her, his brows knitted, but his voice was even. “We decided he should make an early night of it. I thought you would be glad of my escort.”

  “Well, of course we are,” she asserted, but the sparkle in her eye robbed the words of truth. He gave her a steady look before turning to help Catheryn with her cloak. Lady Dambroke and Tiffany wore theirs already. The countess’s, edged with swansdown and fastened with a jeweled clasp at the bosom, trailed to the floor from an inverted vee, while Tiffany’s velvet military cape fastened down the front with a row of golden frogs.

  Paulson appeared, opened the great doors, and watched them to the carriage. Catheryn, sitting next to Tiffany and across from Dambroke and the countess, was reminded by the latter to be on her best behavior, to mind her unruly tongue, and, above all, not to dance the waltz until she had been given the approval to do so by one of the patronesses. “For it is a hard and fast rule, my dear, and you will be thought fast if you do not attend to it.”

  Catheryn promised to be careful, admitting that she had learned the controversial dance in Bath before her grandfather’s death but had not danced it since. Tiffany was noticeably quiet, and Catheryn thought once or twice that she actually shivered. The night was a bit chilly, but surely Tiffany’s extraordinary cape was enough to protect her from the crisp air. She was about to ask if her cousin was feeling quite the thing when the carriage drew to a halt outside the brilliantly lighted windows of Almack’s Assembly Rooms.

  They were handed from the coach by obsequious footmen and made their way to the entry hall, where they were greeted by another minion ready to take the ladies’ wraps. Catheryn and Lady Dambroke soon handed him theirs, but since it seemed Tiffany would be some time undoing all the fastenings of hers, he accepted her brother’s offer to help her with it, while he bestowed the others. Tiffany’s fingers twitched nervously as she slowly undid each frog. A suspicious glint leaped to the earl’s eye, but he waited patiently. Her mother did not.

  “Good gracious, Tiffany, don’t be all night. It’s chilly in this hall.” Her words ended in a shriek as her daughter opened the cape and Dambroke began to lift it from her shoulders. “Tiffany!” The exclamation was followed by an exasperated moan. Catheryn thought her own eyes must be popping out of her head. Tiffany’s rose muslin gown was cut so daringly low in the front that her breasts billowed like white apples above it. The thin skirt clung to her body in such a way that every lovely curve was blatantly revealed. Dambroke, standing behind her and lifting the cape, had missed the full effect, but at his mother’s cry he lowered the wrap with whistling speed, took one good look, and whisked the cape back over her. She opened her mouth to protest.

  “Not one word, if you value your skin, miss!” he snapped. His jaw was clenched and his words low-spoken, but the fury in his tone was unmistakable, frightening Tiffany to silence. She began, more nervously yet, to refasten the frogs. Dambroke spoke to the countess. “I’ll return, ma’am. If anyone inquires, say she was taken ill. She may very well be ill before I’ve done with her,” he added grimly.

  “Richard!” Lady Dambroke reached out a hand, but he had turned away and, with a firm grip on her arm, was steering his sister out the door. “Oh, Catheryn!” The countess turned to her lone support. “Why did she do it? And when everything was going so well!” Aware that they were beginning to present a spectacle of their own to new arrivals, she did not wait for an answer but, drawing Catheryn’s hand through her arm, made her way toward the main assembly room. “We mustn’t stand like stocks, my dear.” She managed an almost normal smile and nodded to a passing acquaintance. “I only hope Dambroke returns before eleven,” she added in an undertone. “The Regent himself couldn’t get through those doors after that hour. That wicked girl! I hope he gives her a scold she won’t forget!”

  Catheryn chuckled a little nervously. “By the look of him, Aunt Elizabeth, he is more like to beat her!”

  “Oh, if only he would,” her ladyship breathed wistfully, but her face fell as she added, “but he will not, I suggested it once, and he said that I should have attended to it years ago. But I never could, and her father never would, so there we are … and, oh, how could she!”

  Catheryn pulled her a little to one side, allowing others to pass. “Please, Aunt, what did she do to that dress? Surely, she never purchased it looking like that!”

  “Of course she did not! I know that dress,” Lady Dambroke retorted. “She pulled off the lace ruching and damped her petticoat—that is, if she was wearing one. She will catch her death. And she should have worn a white dress. I told her!” The countess was becoming more agitated by the minute. Catheryn touched her arm soothingly.

  “My lady, you must calm yourself. It was very shocking conduct, to be sure, but it is done now. I don’t believe anyone else even saw her.”
>
  Cheered by these words, Lady Dambroke was soon able to compose herself and attend to her duties as Catheryn’s chaperone. The necessary introductions completed, Miss Westering was soon standing up for her first country dance with Lord Thomas Colby, who seemed to have been watching for their arrival. As soon as he could do so without being impolite, he asked where the Lady Tiffany was. Catheryn was asked the same question many times as the evening progressed by most of her various partners, including Mr. James Lawrence, and always gave the same reply. Her ladyship had been taken ill. No, it was not serious and, yes, she would be out and about in no time. She kept watch for the earl but was engaged in conversation with young Tom Varling and missed his entrance. Tom, with a guilty grin, explained that he hated dancing but that his mother had demanded his escort for herself and Cynthia, insisting that he should make himself useful since he had been so stupid as to be sent home.” Catheryn was still laughing when she looked up to see Dambroke bearing down on her. His expression was grim.

  “Cousin, I’d like this dance, if you please.” The orchestra had begun a waltz, and he took her arm preparing to swing her into the dance. Catheryn dug in her heels.

  “Dambroke!” she gasped, more in merriment than dismay. “Would you undo all my good behavior, you wretch?”

  “What? Oh, the devil!” With a guilty grimace, he looked around for a moment, his eyes searching the gathering. Spotting the object of his search, he pulled Catheryn away from a grinning Tom Varling and wended his way across the floor. She was brought up breathless and protesting in front of Lady Jersey, whom she had met, briefly, upon her arrival. Her ladyship raised a haughty brow.

  “Well, my lord?”

  He had known her all his life and was not the least undone by her attitude. “Miss Westering says she cannot dance the waltz with me without approval from one of the patronesses,” he said with a beguiling smile, much Catheryn thought, in the manner of a cozening schoolboy. “All her other dances are taken, my lady, so will you please give your approval in order that I may dance with her?”