“I must own, I am thought somewhat sage,” she said modestly.
“Are you? By whom?” She shot a sharp sideways glance at him, but his bland expression put to rest the dawning suspicion that he was teasing her.
“Oh, all sorts of people,” she said airily. “Tradesmen, servants, actresses, actors, singers, artists… They come to me, tell me their troubles, and ask my advice.”
An idea had begun to form in her imagination. She had no right entertaining it, let alone acting on it, but that had never stopped her before and it didn’t stop her now. He was simply too handsome to spend his life mourning the loss of “Saint Catherine.”
“Yes. Why just the other day, Mrs. Dodgson—You do know Mrs. Elmore Dodgson, do you not? No? Oh. You must endeavor to be introduced. Charming woman.
“At any rate, the other day Mrs. Dodgson was lamenting the fate of her son Charles.” She leaned closer to him. He smelled nice. Soapy and male. “I tell you this in the strictest confidence, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Well, Charles had developed a tendresse for a young lady, feelings he had every reason to believe were reciprocated and that he’d hoped would end in…” She searched about for the imaginary Charles’s ultimate goal.
“A wedding thingie?” Sir Elliot suggested helpfully.
“Exactly! But then, just as their relationship was popping along smoothly, her father required that she go abroad for a long while. When she returned, he discovered her feelings had changed.” She fixed him with a telling stare. “Charles has been moping about ever since.”
“Poor fellow.”
Once more she stopped walking. Once more he followed suit. She met his gaze squarely.
“Poor fellow, nothing,” she said. “Self-pitying fellow. Foolish, self-indulgent fellow. Uselessly-pining-after-a-floozy-who’d-proven-herself-both-shallow-and-immature fellow.”
He strangled a sound in his throat. Ah. So, he’d not missed her veiled reference, then.
“You don’t believe that po—pitiful Charles’s lengthy mourning for his lost love indicates the, er, depth of his feelings?” he asked.
“Pining after what can never be for months—or years—doesn’t testify to the depth of a man’s love, it testifies to his predisposition toward melodrama. The stage already has enough cheap histrionics without amateurs adding their voices. Believe me. And that is precisely what I told Mrs. Dodgson.”
She’d been perhaps a trifle obvious in her little fiction and prepared herself to meet stony silence in return for her charitable hints. Instead, he burst out laughing. It was a deep, rich laugh, warm and full.
“My dear Lady Agatha,” he said, “I daresay no one ever accuses you of rank sentimentality. Wherever did you learn to take such a hard view of life?”
Hard? He thought her hard? The idea hurt. She considered herself practical, tough, a bit of an opportunist, but an optimistic one. She’d never thought of herself as “hard.” Nick was hard.
She disliked the word applied to her. Immensely. And since she disliked it, she answered without stopping to think.
“I’ve had to be,” she said, and then too late realized that Lady Agatha had probably never “had” to do anything in her life. “I mean, in my years of planning nuptial ceremonies I’ve seen many couples wed. They are seldom fairy-tale unions. No matter how very much one wants them to be. Perhaps if one sees disillusionment often enough, after a while one becomes inured to it.”
He moved close to her, his brow furrowed. He gazed out into the darkness and after a moment said, “You’ll do your best for Miss Angela’s particular fairy tale though, won’t you?”
“Of course.” She began walking forward. His hand stayed her. She turned.
His hand dropped to his side. “Excuse me.”
But she’d seen the question in his eyes. “I promise I will do everything in my power to make this wedding go as smoothly and uneventfully as possible.”
And in her case, her best efforts meant vacating The Hollies as soon as possible. But since she’d promised, she decided that when she slipped off she’d leave the Bigglesworths a note advising them to find another wedding planner. That should satisfy him. Certainly, she’d be doing more than the real Lady Agatha to assure the “smooth uneventfulness” of the Bigglesworth nuptials. She hadn’t even written. Yet Sir Elliot offered her his arm and she took it, feeling somehow that he’d won concessions from her she’d not intended to give. “You must be in some way related to the Bigglesworths to be so concerned.”
“Not by blood, but certainly by association,” he said. “I grew up on the estate between here and the Himplerumps. My mother died when I was very young. The Bigglesworths more or less adopted my brother and me while my father went through a rather rough period of adjustment.
“Anton was an excellent surrogate uncle and Eglantyne was always motherly without ever presuming to take the place of my mother. Their efforts were much appreciated,” he finished softly.
“And is your brother also appreciative?” Letty asked curiously.
“While he lived,” Elliot said. “Terry died in Africa, during a military campaign.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” he replied, robbing her of the uneasiness of having stumbled unwittingly into private matters. “And you, Lady Agatha, your family is quite large.”
His comment ambushed her. Was he speaking from certain knowledge that Lady Agatha’s family was large or from an assumption?
“A large extended family,” she said carefully.
“I recall.”
Drat! Why did he have to know anything about Lady Agatha’s family? Because every muck-a-muck in Society knew every other muck-a-muck, that’s why. They probably spent free evenings poring over Burke’s Peerage. She should have realized it.
She smiled without replying.
“And I also recall that personal experience must give you sympathy for uneven matrimonial matches,” he said earnestly.
What sort of personal experience? He must be speaking of some particular incident. Had Lady Agatha nearly made a disastrous match? Is that why she was still a spinster? Was there something unsavory in her past that she’d had to overcome?
“Your grandmother’s own story was most illustrative.”
Lady Agatha’s grandmother! Letty thought in relief, but it was short-lived. She didn’t know anything more about the old lady’s peccadillo than she did Lady Agatha’s. He waited. Drat it all. She’d have to say something.
“I didn’t know anyone still talked about…that.” She imbued her voice with frost. “It was a long time ago.”
He was immediately contrite. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to discomfort you. I do not like to think of myself as a snob, nor would I like you to think me one.”
Snob? Than Granny Whyte had done something scandalous. Something that had caused her to lose her social standing. What had it been? Child out of wedlock? Cheating at cards? Caught with a lover?
“Oh, not discomfort. I am just surprised that something so,” she took a leap of faith based on his wording, “lurid should interest you.”
He shot her a quick glance. “I am afraid I have overstepped myself and caused you unease. I am sorry.”
“Think nothing of it.” She breathed an inner sigh of relief. However, just to circumvent any future problem, she should pry what Granny Whyte’s sin had been out of the Bigglesworths.
What was she thinking of? She wouldn’t be around long enough for it to matter. A day. Perhaps two.
But having successfully wriggled out of one difficulty filled Letty with a feeling of omnipotence. She reminded herself of the warning she’d given herself this very evening and promptly dismissed her earlier caution as a case of the jitters.
The night was lovely, she was free of Nick Sparkle, Sir Elliot was completely taken in by her, and she had a whole day in which to pretend to be the witty, sophisticated, admired Lady Agatha. Perhaps, she thought, glancing at Sir Elliot’s clean profil
e, two days.
He led her silently to the entrance by which she’d left the house. At the door she turned to face him. She smiled. “Thank you for the walk. Sir Elliot. I enjoyed it.”
“No more than I.”
“Will we see you tomorrow, then?”
“Most definitely,” he said, his low, intense voice sending a delicious ripple up her spine.
He lifted her hand to his mouth and dipped down, brushing a kiss against her hand. His lips were warm and soft, so warm and soft that she failed to note the chill in his smile when he took his leave.
Chapter 7
Give me a strong back over a soft heart.
Who was she, if she wasn’t Lady Agatha Whyte? Why would anyone want to impersonate her? He must be wrong…
Elliot raked his fingers through his hair.
It had been such a long, long time since he’d been so intensely aware of a woman. He flexed his hand, seeing the tanned outline of his fingers imprinted on her lace gown. He could feel her waist beneath his palms as he’d lifted her down from the wall. He could hear her laughter, see the merry tilt of her lips, smell the fragrant warmth of her rising from her skin…
He shook his hand, as if in doing so he could shake off his awareness of her. She couldn’t be an imposter, a filthy confidence trickster.
He scoured his mind for some other explanation for her extraordinary behavior. Perhaps she’d come here on a wager. He remembered enough of his days amongst the ton to know it wasn’t impossible that in their boredom or mischievousness or both, one of her set had dared her to impersonate Lady Agatha. Perhaps Lady Agatha herself.
Or maybe she was Lady Agatha and simply a confirmed eccentric. Certainly, the reports he’d heard of her suggested such. And that might account for her occasional startling lapses into street argot. Though it couldn’t account for her dress. Even the oddest lady he knew would rather die than remain a moment longer than necessary in the gown in which she’d traveled.
And how to explain her youth? For not all the creams and salves in the world could imbue the buoyancy in her step, the porcelain whiteness to her eye, or the rich sheen to her hair.
And finally, tellingly, how did one account for the fact that Lady Agatha Whyte did not know that her grandmother, the eighth daughter of an inconsequential Irish landowner, had, through judicious console and blameless reputation, become one of Queen Victoria’s ladies-in-waiting?
Clearly this Lady Agatha thought he’d been speaking of some disgrace attached to her grandmother.
There was none.
He’d referred to the fact that even though she’d begun so humbly—like Angela—Lady Agatha’s grandmother had risen to be not only accepted but also feted by Society. No breath of scandal had ever touched her. Indeed, she’d been famous for her virtue. Nothing in her history had ever been referred to as ‘something so lurid.’
The woman had to be an impostor.
Didn’t she? Unless she’d been referring to her other grandmother… About whom he knew nothing.
He moved away from the stables, heading for the house, his face set. Tomorrow he’d telegraph London and begin making some discreet inquiries. The answer, he knew, could be some time coming. In the meantime, he’d stay very, very close to this lady.
Whoever she was.
Letty spread her arms wide and fell straight back, sinking deep into the feather mattress. Fagin, bounced rudely awake, grumbled and settled down again.
Letty glanced at the mantel clock. Two o’clock in the morning and she’d just finished unpacking Lady Agatha’s things. She’d been too wide-awake after her evening stroll with Sir Elliot to even think of sleeping. She looked around with satisfaction.
Strewn over every surface in the room were dresses and materials, some still in bolts of yardage and others in tissue-wrapped parcels: Sheerest batiste, thick polished brocades, glimmering faille and shimmering silk, dense lustrous satin, rippling crepe de chine, and gauzy muslin, tissues and sarcenets, moirés and tulles. The variety was amazing. And the colors endless!
Letty had never imagined so many whites existed. She’d unwrapped hard, gleaming nacre white and white as soft as a dove’s wing; brilliant snow-white and white as mellow as ancient ivory. Dense chalk-white and thin, milky-white. Silvery-white and cool alabaster-white.
And after the material, she’d started on the trunks.
She’d unpacked every decorative accoutrement a woman could want. There were kidskin gloves with four buttons or six in half a dozen colors, silk stockings so sheer they seemed transparent, silk tassels for hats and bird’s wings for headdresses, tippets and scarves to drape around the neck, sashes and ribbons to tie about the waist
Lady Agatha hadn’t scrimped on the underpinnings, either. Cartons of frilly unmentionables stood open about the room; pads and tounures to shape the hips, and chemises and corsets to enhance the bust. And there were petticoats, beautiful, soft, draping petticoats, designed to tantalize the imagination of anyone who might catch a glimpse of their frilly hems.
Letty’s mother would have fainted dead away in ecstasy. Veda had always claimed that she’d stayed with Lady Fallontrue because in return for her talents, her ladyship had allowed Letty to be educated with her own children. But Letty suspected that as good a reason for Veda’s putting up with the woman’s cruel tongue and pitiful wages was that Lady Fallontrue gave Veda free rein to create all the wondrous gowns that crowded her imagination.
For all her flaws—and there were a great many—Lady Fallontrue had two distinct gifts: she knew genius when she saw it and was wise enough not to interfere with it. Who else would let a nobody like Veda create as she saw fit? Certainly not the music hall owners with their cheap velveteen and cheaper chintz.
But that’s where Veda had ended up—as costume designer to second-rate music hall performers. Not that they’d always been second-rate, Letty thought loyally. When Lady Fallontrue had hired The Amazing Algernon as a divertissement for one of her “at-homes,” he’d been at the top of his career, a handsome, acrobatic, and charming magician.
Lady Fallontrue was not the only one who thought so. Veda had taken one look at The Amazing Algernon—born Alfie Potts—and for the second time in her life, fallen in love. This time with happier results.
Not that Letty wasn’t the sunshine of her life, Veda had always said, but frankly put—and Veda Potts was nothing if not frank—Letty was likely the only good thing that had ever come from Letty’s father, Viscount Napier.
Twenty-four hours after Alf’s performance—and just which performance Letty had never had the nerve to ask—Veda had given Lady Fallontrue her notice. The rest, as the storytellers liked to say, was history. Alfie and Veda had married and Alf had happily stepped into the role of stepfather. The three of them had moved to London where Letty had lived ever since, raised behind a hundred stages’ crimson curtains, sung to sleep at night by racy ditties, and apprenticed in the myriad crafts of the theater, both legit and un.
Then, six years ago, Veda had caught a cold that had turned into pneumonia. She’d died. Alfie, brokenhearted, had left the stage. Veda would have hated that. She hated a quitter and she hated a soft-heart. “Give me a strong back over a soft heart any old day,” she’d said. And even on her deathbed had managed to croak out, “Don’t cry, Letty. Tears are for the weak and the weak don’t survive.”
Letty refused to leave London with Alf. She was a good singer and, regardless of what the know-nothing critics said, a good actress, too. And she was beginning to be noticed by those who could get a girl a leg up.
Like Nick Sparkle…
Letty flopped over on her stomach, refusing to entertain thoughts of Nick and her mistakes related to him. She studied the cascades of material thoughtfully. Oh, the things her mother would have done with this windfall!
Letty smiled.
Veda had been no saint and, Lord knows, neither was Letty. But mostly they’d been pals. Especially after Alf had come into their life. Alf had knit them together,
made them a family.
It had been too many months since she’d visited him. Maybe once things with Nick had blown over she could look him up in his little rural cottage. He’d said the door would always be open to her. On the other hand, she wasn’t about to bring her troubles to her stepfather’s door. She’d go somewhere else. Maybe France.
And in order to do that, she needed money. Which a few of these dresses and some of these costly baubles would bring. If she could find a buyer for them. She sat up.
The first order of business was to continue to string these folks along in their belief that she was Lady Agatha. Particularly Sir Elliot. And that meant making a grand show of herself. She looked down at her once-lovely lavender gown. The lace was pulled out of shape and the underdress was stained. She couldn’t wear it again. She sighed. No rest for the wicked.
She glanced down at Fagin, sleeping blissfully. The fool mutt hadn’t left the bed since he’d landed on it. Well, he’d best not get too used to a life of luxury, she thought. Though no one deserved it better than he did.
She wasn’t rightly sure just how she and old Fagin had teamed up. Fate, she supposed. She’d come out of the back alley of a third-rate music hall one night after finishing her act and found a pack of boys torturing a little dog. They’d had it cornered. She hated above all things to see a creature cornered like that.
So she’d waded into their midst with fists flying and legs kicking and, most importantly, screaming at the top of a pair of incredibly gifted lungs. Afraid a copper would show, the mob had dispersed. The ragged little dog had scooted in with her when she’d returned to the music hall. Fagin had been with her ever since. Not a pet she owned, not something she was really responsible for. He was just with her, was all.
“All right, then,” she murmured. “Until we’re back in London, you can consider yourself officially on holiday. But don’t you get too used to finer things, m’lad, because they’re temporary.”
She pushed herself to her feet and fetched the sewing basket she’d found in one of the trunks. She rummaged through it until she found scissors, needles, and thread. Then, with the eye of a connoisseur, she began sorting through the dresses she’d unpacked, looking for the one that would take the least amount of alteration to make it fit her smaller, riper figure.
The Bridal Season Page 6
