“That’s very kind of you, Helen,” said Lady Mary, signalling the housekeeper to depart. “I fear we cannot accept such generosity.”
“Oh, please!” The tall girl clasped her hands together. “It’s the least I can do. Oh, Meg, I never meant to cause trouble for Angela. I had so looked forward to welcoming her into the family. But the letter fell out of the book where I’d hidden it, and Edward chanced upon it. You can’t know how horrified I was when I found it missing.”
Together, the three young women reviewed the events of the past few days from every angle, bringing the newcomer up to date on Meg’s misfortunes, and exploring at length Edward’s reaction to the letter. At last Helen said, “We must make an attempt to set things right.”
“Impossible,” said Angela.
“For Meg, perhaps. Germaine would do whatever we asked, but I doubt she has much influence with his lordship,” Helen said with a sigh. “However, my brother is another matter.”
“You can’t mean to say you believe he’d listen to you, after all that has transpired.” Angela favoured their friend with a sceptical glance
“No, but I do believe he loves you, although he most likely doesn’t know it himself, thick headed as he is.” Helen’s face took on a determined grimness. “Surely he’d be seized by jealousy if he saw you in Sir Manfred’s arms.”
“Then he should have been the one who arrived instead of Lady Darnet. But I think not.” Angela swallowed hard. “Helen, he would as soon be jealous of me as of... as of some milkmaid on your estates.”
“Don’t set yourself too low, girl,” said Lady Mary. “The man has eyes, and you’re a fair sight for them.”
“Very true.” Helen reflected for a moment. “Unfortunately, he intends to remove to Somerset as soon as possible, taking the household with him. I must find reason for him to stay.”
Her listeners waited—Meg hopefully, Angela near tears, Lady Mary occupied in working loose a blue thread she had stitched in the wrong place.
“I have it,” Helen said at last. “I shall tell him we must attend the ball, to give the lie to rumours that he has broken off an engagement. Since my name and his are involved, he can hardly refuse.”
“But won’t you mention Sir Manfred?” asked Angela.
“Whatever for? Let Edward find out for himself.”
“Helen, he’ll banish you to Somerset until you’re eighty,” declared Meg.
“Even the stiffest boot softens with time.” Helen shrugged. “I’ll take the consequences, since it’s my own carelessness that brought us to this pass. Now I’d best be off, before my absence draws too much attention. Aunt Emily won’t betray us, but Rachel chatters like a magpie.” She kissed her friends on their cheeks and took her leave.
“That’s a sensible girl,” said Lady Mary after Helen had gone. “Takes matters into her own hands. We’ve left the running of the world to men, and you see what a packet of bad fish they’ve made of it. When it comes to matters of the heart, we’d best arrange things ourselves.”
“But surely a young lady must wait for the gentleman to make the first move,” said Meg.
“Not at all. She must merely make the gentleman think that he has made the first move.” Her mother bit off a thread and laid aside her embroidery. “I think I shall retire. Tomorrow you must both help me prepare for the ball.”
Meg and Angela retreated to their room in contemplative silence. As a result of their mother’s economies, no replacement had been hired for Karen, so the two aided each other in undressing.
“What a pretty pass we’ve come to,” sighed Meg, brushing out her sister’s hair. “Both of us in love, and neither of us loved in return.”
“I cannot think Helen will meet with any success where Edward’s concerned.” Angela leaned her head back, as if it had become too heavy for her slender neck. “He has no feelings for me beyond disapproval. But at least his indifference when he learns of my engagement at the ball will convince even the most hardened gossip that there was never an attachment between us.”
Meg kept her own counsel. She had never seen the pair together, but she suspected Edward’s response would be infuriated jealousy. After all, how could anyone fail to love Angela?
After the candles were blown out, Meg lay awake wondering at the strangeness she felt in this familiar room. The soft rise and fall of Angela’s breathing, while a pleasant reminder of her family’s nearness, also underscored how far she had come from Brynwood.
She would never see the marquis again. He had already written her off as a bad business and was probably casting about for a suitable wife. With his entrancing good looks, wealth, and position, he was sure to find one soon.
Her heart clenched at the memory of his accusations. That he should think she was a prankster, come to make sport of him! How bitterly ironic, to be linked with the shallow creatures of fashion who’d sent Meg packing in the first place.
It was hopeless to love him, hopeless to lie here aching for the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice. She must put him from her mind, and pray that in time her pain would dull.
Chapter Eighteen
Lord Bryn was never afterward sure at precisely what point he decided to visit London for the first time in more than two years. Perhaps it was as he watched the carriage bear Miss Linley away, leaving him standing with clenched fists and an unfamiliar emptiness. Or perhaps it was when he learned that the Geraints planned to remain in the neighbourhood for some weeks, pending Germaine’s marriage to Squire Roberts. Naturally Andrew felt obligated to offer them the continuing use of his premises, although he found their presence a painful reminder of the past.
As did the downcast faces of the children, who were asking when Miss Linley might return and who would give them their lessons.
It was not as if he feared going to town, he told himself, sipping brandy in his study. He simply had no need to mix with society.
There was, however, a perfectly good reason that he should go. His man of affairs had erred badly in selecting the previous governess, since clearly the real Myra Lindsay had been unsuitable to deal with his wards. I shall go and select a governess myself, he decided firmly. Someone elderly— well, not so old she couldn’t keep the children in hand, but definitely long in the tooth.
He also missed the comradeship of his friends at Brooks’. He recalled with amusement the witticisms they made about Beau Brummell, who with his foppish companions frequented the bow window at White’s and made audible comments about the passersby in Bond Street. What a pompous lot they were, and how he enjoyed skewering them with his chums at the club.
One further matter remained with which he must deal. The defection of Miss Geraint had left the marquis in need of a wife.
Someone sweet and unassuming would suit perfectly. A woman sure to fade into the background, never laughing too loudly or dashing about the grounds yelling after the children—or taking his heart away and refusing to give it back.
Bryn searched his memory. Hadn’t he heard that Lady Cynthia Darnet was widowed a year or so before? He remembered her as a quiet, elegant young woman. Perhaps she would do the trick.
Yes, the marquis would go to London the very next day, and take matters in hand. And if that outrageous, unscrupulous Meg Linley had spread word of her prank, he would cut her down to the size of a turnip.
The food at Brooks’ was passable, but only just. On Wednesday evening, the marquis consumed a dinner of boiled fowl with apple tart, chiding himself for forgetting the mediocrity of the club’s cuisine.
Now where had all his friends gone these past few years? Unhappily Andrew searched the faces of those who passed by. Some he recognized, but they were elderly gentlemen of little interest to him.
An inquiry of the waiter produced the information that one fellow had married and retired to the country, another was serving with Wellington, a third had transferred his allegiance to the odious White’s, and a fourth had been killed in a carriage accident. So it was with consid
erable relief, as he sipped Madeira after dinner, that Lord Bryn espied Edward Cockerell.
The two had never been close, but they had belonged to the same set at Oxford. Andrew recalled some comment Miss Linley had made, that Edward had brought out her younger sister, and this gave him a moment’s pause. But when Cockerell spotted him and approached, the marquis responded with a warm greeting.
“Glad to see you back in town.” Edward took a seat in one of the wing chairs and signalled the waiter for a sherry. “Business, old chap?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Andrew, adding frankly, “I’ve need of a governess for my wards, and while I’m about it, thought I’d take a look round for a wife.”
Cockerell nodded agreeably. “Knew Germaine wasn’t the right sort—too hoydenish,” he said. “Was on the edge of getting leg-shackled to the wrong girl myself, but luckily I found out the truth about her in time.”
The marquis listened in fascination to the story of Angela Linley. An artful deceiver, just like her sister.
When Edward came to the matter of Meg’s letter, and Andrew realised his own affairs had been bruited about, he grew cold with anger. So the minx had boasted of her cleverness, despite her protestations of innocence.
With a sharp twinge, he saw that until this moment he had secretly cherished the hope that Miss Linley might yet prove to be a harmless eccentric who would reappear in his life, and prove herself blameless. Now his last hope died. She must be punished. Oddly the prospect gave him no pleasure.
“As if that weren’t bad enough, my sister rang a peal over my head when I tried to withdraw to the country,” Edward was saying. “She insists we must make an appearance at the ball or the gossips will have a high time of it.”
“Let them,” muttered Lord Bryn. “Who gives a fig for their opinion?”
“You must recall that I have an unmarried sister and the family name to uphold.” Mr. Cockerell assumed a prudish expression that, in Andrew’s opinion, would have better fitted an old maid. “We haven’t the protection of a title, you know.”
Lord Bryn cut off a sharp retort. The fellow was right. Under the circumstances Andrew might even have attended the ball himself....
Attend the ball? Should he? Hmm. What a cork-brained notion. Or was it?
The idea rattled around in his brain. He hadn’t yet fixed on a method of repaying Miss Linley for her betrayal, and this presented an opportunity.
“I say.” Andrew cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should come with you. Give me a chance to see these Linleys in their home setting. Can’t deny I’m curious.”
Edward sat up straighter, clearly pleased at being singled out by the marquis. “Don’t see why not, old chap. Deuced affair’s Friday night. We’ll have supper at our house first—we lay a first-rate table.”
“Delighted,” said Andrew. “By the by, have you any notion whether Lady Cynthia Darnet is in want of a husband?”
Edward frowned. Had he an interest in the woman? Andrew might have suppose so, had the other man’s forehead not smoothed at that moment. “I believe she is. If you like, we could call there tomorrow afternoon.”
“Splendid,” said Andrew.
The following morning, he arranged for an advertisement to be placed in the newspapers seeking a governess. With luck, the business would be concluded by early the following week. Then, mindful that his country wardrobe was ill suited to town, the marquis forced himself to go shopping in St. James’s.
What painful memories came back to him as he ordered Hessian boots, snowy cravats, a high-crowned beaver hat, striped silk stockings, and other necessaries. In his younger days, it had been Harry who followed dutifully behind, arranging for packages to be delivered and, when asked, proffering expert opinions.
He would never have approved Lord Bryn’s purchase of a blue coat, waistcoat, and knee breeches that had been made for another gentleman but never claimed. However, they fitted well enough and were of good material, and insufficient time remained before the ball to have new items made.
The marquis was not a vain man, but he rather enjoyed wearing elegant clothing once more. Rough clothes and worn boots might be acceptable in the country, but it was a long-forgotten pleasure to be well turned out.
A pity Meg had never seen him this way. How her face would have glowed! With a rush of tactile memory, the marquis recalled how she’d melted into his arms that night when he’d proposed. He could still smell the sweetness of her hair, still feel the soft firmness of her body. Until he met her, women had seemed to Lord Bryn to be a vaguely necessary fact of life, owed one’s politeness but not worth much effort .
Meg. How forcefully she came back to him now, teasing the children out of their bad moods, carrying armsful of flowers from the garden, bringing light into the old house and into his life.
She had enchanted him like some minx from a child’s fairy story. Only at the last had he broken free of her spell. Why did he wish now that he had remained forever enchanted?
Angrily the marquis forced himself, on returning home, to concentrate on preparing for the afternoon’s visit to Lady Darnet. She, as he recalled, had been a proper wife to her first husband, tractable and above reproach.
It was shortly after four o’clock when Mr. Cockerell’s phaeton arrived, and the two gentlemen set off for the widow’s home. They found the countess entertaining an elderly duchess and her niece. Through the murmur of polite greetings and how-good-to-see-you-agains, the air hummed with their thoughts.
Lady Darnet: The Marquis of Bryn, back in London and visiting me! But in company with Mr. Cockerell. Whatever can that mean? Well, Edward has had his chance, and no doubt he nurses a tendre for that simpering miss. I’d give my left eye to marry a marquis, and a young one at that.
Edward: She regards Bryn as if she were assessing the cattle at Newmarket. What a conniving wench she is, in spite of her fine looks and title. Why did I never see it before? But damn it, she is suitable, at least. Whereas Angela... Oh, dash Angela!
Bryn: Now here’s the sort of woman I ought to marry. Polite, even though she does smile as if her teeth pain her. Tepid sort of fish, I suppose, but ain’t that what a wife’s supposed to be?
As she ushered her visitors to their seats, and thankfully bade farewell to the duchess’s party, it occurred to Cynthia that she had best guard her step. One could not tell what the marquis intended by this visit. It would not do to favour him too markedly; Edward, being rid of his onetime inamorata, might still prove a good prospect. She decided not to mention Angela’s engagement to Sir Manfred. Why risk provoking Mr. Cockerell?
“Lord Bryn, I cannot tell you how honoured I am to be among the first to welcome you to town.” She adopted her sweetest tone as she offered the callers refreshments, and sank gracefully onto a chair, without bothering to introduce her elderly, dozing companion.
“Thank you,” he said. The man was even handsomer than she remembered, with his dark, brooding eyes and aristocratic face. But lacking in conversation.
“What brings you to London?” she chirped. “The balls, perhaps, or the Opera? They’ve rebuilt it, you know, and it’s simply splendid.”
“His lordship is here on business,” said Edward. “I say, are you attending the Linleys’ ball tomorrow night?”
“Oh, yes, indeed.” Cynthia smiled brightly at both gentlemen, wishing Lord Bryn would exert himself a trifle more. “I’m told everyone will be there, though I can’t imagine why.”
The marquis regarded her quizzically. “Why should they not?”
The countess loved to gossip, particularly about people she disliked. “I daresay you’ve missed the uproar earlier this season, that nodcock Miss Linley snubbing Beau Brummell, and then claiming she didn’t see him.”
Bryn merely grunted. She took this as encouragement.
“Then Edward was kind enough to sponsor the sister, but she’s a milk-and-water sort of miss, and not worthy of him,” Lady Darnet rattled on. “Also, everyone knows they’re down in th
e pocket. I’ve heard that Lady Mary was seen selling her emeralds to a jeweller in Clerkenwell. Can you imagine, financing a ball with one’s last penny?”
Andrew was finding this conversation distasteful. He had endeavoured, since the previous evening, to harden his heart against Meg Linley, and that task was made more difficult by the news of her family’s financial straits. Perhaps she would be forced into the role of a governess, after all, and then some other man might find himself falling in love with the sprite who brought magic to his household.
Moreover, he retained an intense dislike of frivolous tattle. Even now, men were fighting and dying on the Continent, to protect the safety of self-satisfied windbags like Lady Darnet.
Perhaps he was being unfair. The lady had no doubt been raised to believe that drawing-room conversation must be kept light and general. She was only performing her obligations as a hostess.
Beside him, Edward glowered as if he too were displeased. At least one need not worry that he harbored tender sentiments toward the widow.
Cynthia wasn’t entirely a fool, and she guessed that her comments about the Linleys had fallen upon less than sympathetic ears. Hastening to explain, she added, “Not that I take joy in someone else’s misfortune, but I cannot bear pretence. Do they mean to trick the rest of us by putting on a gala affair? Perhaps they think to lure some wealthy husbands.”
Both men grimaced. In Edward’s case, one could understand that, but what about the marquis? Cynthia wracked her brain to think of some connexion between Lord Bryn and the Linleys, but failed utterly.
When he spoke again, it was on another topic entirely. “How do you feel about life in the country, Lady Darnet?”
On the verge of blurting that she despised rustication, she paused. Could the marquis be referring to his own situation? She’d come close to ruining her chances!
“It would depend on one’s companions,” she said, silently vowing that five minutes after marrying the man, she would insist on spending the season each year in London.
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