“Wasn’t there a couple of sisters come to town some years ago—nobodies who did very well for themselves?” Prunella Twitchell inquired.
“The Gunning sisters,” Sarah replied kindly. “They did indeed. I believe each married a duke.”
“There now, didn’t I tell you!” declared Mrs. Twitchell.
“Really, aunt,” Esmerelda protested, “I have no such expectations.”
“Perhaps we should set you at my sister’s beau,” Sarah suggested, eyes dancing in merriment. “She is quite odiously determined to be a duchess, but . . . no, no, I like you far too well to wish you on Parkington. We will find you a fine young gentleman, handsome and kind.”
“Like your dear Davenham,” Prunella Twitchell cried, clasping her hands and rolling her eyes. “Such a delightful young man!” And once again she was off, this time in praise of a gentleman who gifted his wife with such an extraordinarily fine present as a curricle and pair of high-steppers.
“I believe,” said Mrs. Bryne, when her cousin Prunella had run the topic of curricles into the ground, “that no mention has been made of Esmerelda’s expectations. I assure you, Lady Davenham, that our family is not foolish enough to send Esmerelda into the beau monde with nothing more than her looks—though they are very fine indeed.” She cast a look of genuine fondness toward her young cousin. “Esmerelda, do you wish to tell Lady Davenham, or shall I?”
Miss Twitchell sat up straight in her chair, glanced at her Aunt Prunella, who at the moment showed no signs of bursting into another torrent of speech. “As you may have noticed,” Esmerelda said to Sarah, “we are not without a feather to fly with.”
Indeed they were not, Sarah thought. The house on Great Russell Street was more imposing than her new home on Margaret Street, and furnished in much better taste. But the affluence of the Byrnes did not necessarily extend to the Twitchells of Kidderminster.
“My father, Aunt Prunella’s brother, is what is sometimes called a ‘warm’ man,” Esmerelda confided. “I have four younger brothers, but father has assured me I shall have a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.”
Merciful heavens! Sarah was glad she had finished her tea, else she might have choked on it. The dowry was nearly as great as her own. “You’re an heiress?” she managed. “Truly, I had no idea.”
“Makes your task easier, now don’t it, my lady?” Mrs. Twitchell cackled.
Sarah favored the eccentric female with a serene smile. “Presenting Esmerelda was never a task, Mrs. Twitchell, I assure you, for I am eager to show her about town. But now that I know it will be necessary to fend off fortune hunters . . .” Lady Davenham made a wry face. “I may have to enlist the aid of others to protect her—perhaps my brother and Lord Southwaite, with whom you are already acquainted.”
“Not Lord Davenham?” Mrs. Twitchell challenged, obviously startled by the omission.
“Of course Davenham,” Sarah responded quickly. “His aid I took for granted.” Heaven help her for such a blatant lie. But she would surely tell him, with relish, that Miss Twitchell was not quite the penniless nobody he had thought.
As if on cue, the butler announced that Lord Davenham had returned. Since it would never do to keep the horses standing, Sarah and Esmerelda quickly made an appointment to go shopping the next afternoon, followed by a drive through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five. Lady Davenham thanked her hostess, then with a twinkle in her eye assured both elder ladies they need have no fear for Esmerelda’s safety—she would not be driving her new curricle on the morrow.
Farewells were cordial, with gratitude spilling from the ladies of Great Russell Street like water from a fountain and Lady Davenham’s legs weak with relief that she had managed to separate Esmerelda from her aunt without causing unfortunate repercussions. The dazzling smile she turned on Davenham was enough to make him catch his breath. Evidently, the gift of a curricle was a smashing success.
“My lord,” Sarah said in a rather small voice as they drove down Oxford Street a few minutes later, “I have invited Miss Twitchell to drive with me in the park tomorrow, and it has occurred to me that acquiring a curricle in addition to our new barouche must have been a vast expense.” She stroked the French blue plush that covered the seat, enjoying the texture as well as the color. “I did not expect it, truly, and . . . and if I did not properly thank you before, I wish you to know it is perfectly splendid!”
“It may be splendid, my girl, but the most profuse thanks in all England will not have you driving Miss Twitchell in Hyde Park tomorrow.”
“What? Oh, no, Harlan. I wouldn’t . . . I’d never . . . at least not yet,” Sarah stammered. “I shall need the barouche tomorrow—and a groom to drive, of course.”
Lord Davenham maneuvered the white horses around a lumbering dray then turned to study his wife’s expressive face, which seemed to be wavering from gratitude to mortification to defiance and back again. Young, so very young. Much more of this and he was going to feel like Methusaleh.
“Fortunately, Margaret Street is close to the edge of town,” he told her, congratulating himself on a noble gesture. “Tomorrow morning we will drive to the country and you may practice. I am happy to say these two are sweet goers, behaving with a nicety down Piccadilly and St. James—and now in the bustle of Oxford Street—so perhaps in a day or two you may drive them on some of the quieter streets here in town. But Hyde Park in the afternoon? Not for some time, Sal. Not for some time.” As in never.
“But I may have the barouche tomorrow? And, Harlan,” she added in coaxing tones after receiving his ready assent, “do you think some morning, perhaps early morning, I might try Hyde Park?”
“Do not press me, puss. You have your curricle. You have Miss Twitchell. I believe I am bent near double at the moment. And I promise you, supine does not become me.”
“Oh, no . . .” Sarah’s shocked response trailed to a halt. Merciful heavens! He was right. If this were a contest, she would be winning. She was winning.
But at what cost?
Her husband had recalled her existence. He was going driving with her in the morning. He was going to spend time with her. Alone. Whatever the cost, it was worth it.
Sarah brightened, sat up straighter in her seat, and inquired, “Were you roundly teased while tooling down St. James?”
“Indeed. The regulars in White’s bow window laughed so hard they nearly fell off their seats, and I’ll not repeat what was called after me by gentlemen in the street.”
“Oh. And you are still willing to be seen with me tomorrow?”
“I am always willing to be seen with you, puss.” He flashed her the smile that inevitably curled her toes.
But Sarah was a realist. Her husband’s words were one of those polished responses at which gentlemen were so adept, Davenham in particular. So far, since their return from Brighton, he had been everywhere but in her company. Yet now she had the perfect excuse . . .
“I am delighted to hear that, Harlan, as I am very much in need of your assistance. I will be taking Miss Twitchell to the Roxbury’s rout party on Thursday evening. It will be her first experience with London society, and I would be most grateful for your support.”
Silence. Lord Davenham drove the final block to their house on Margaret Street, pulled up the horses, and sat staring straight ahead over two white rumps, two braided white manes, and two pairs of white ears. “You want me to help you insert the offspring of some vulgar Cit into the ton?” he said at last.
“She is an heiress,” Sarah declared flatly. And told him about Esmerelda’s dowry.
“In a way,” Lord Davenham declared gloomily, “that is worse, for you are making us responsible for seeing that she is not besieged by fortune hunters. Good God, Sal! How could you possibly think a chit of seventeen could chaperon an heiress?”
“Eighteen. Yesterday was my birthday.” There was a decided edge to the Viscountess Davenham’s tone.
Hell and the devil confound it! Now he was in the suds.
&nbs
p; “You might have mentioned it,” Harlan muttered, drawing a deep breath. “The peculiar nature of our arrangement does not mean that I am wholly insensitive to how you go on. I assure you I would not have let the day pass without—”
“I am quite certain few young ladies, even married young ladies, received a curricle and pair for their eighteenth birthday.”
“Yes, but I did not know it!” Davenham exploded. “I was simply—”
“Apologizing for neglecting me—yes, I know. Yet the fact remains that the gift was generous . . . and only a day late.”
Harlan groaned. Throwing the reins to the groom, who was obviously struggling to act as if he had not overheard every word, Lord Davenham jumped down and held up his arms to assist his wife. “Forgive me, Sal. I shall attempt to do better,” he muttered as she slid to the ground, where he held her in place, chest to chest. “I am promised to your brother and Chumley for dinner tonight, but we will make an early night of it so I may be ready to drive out with you at—shall we say ten? Is that too early?”
Sarah was so overcome by her husband’s body pressed intimately against hers that she could only nod and allow him to guide her shaking frame up the steps to the house. Horrid man. How could she possibly win this game when her husband knew every trick and angle there was in male-female relationships? And was ruthless enough to use them. She was merely little Sally Davenham, the young pup easily trained to jump through the hoop his lordship held.
Ha! No, indeed. She was Sally the Cat, graceful and independent, who stalked her prey and, once she had caught it, would enjoy to the fullest the ensuing game of cat and mouse.
By the time Lady Davenham had reached the top of the stairs—alone, as her husband left her to retire to his apartment below—steely determination had replaced her moment of weakness. What had been only a series of fleeting ideas, wishful thinking, and vague rebellion began to coalesce into a plan. Somehow, some way, she was going to woo and win her husband. The carefree bachelor days of Harlan Dawnay, Viscount Davenham, were doomed.
“Miss Twitchell. I am delighted to renew our acquaintance.” Lord Southwaite proffered both a bow and a smile to the unknown girl from Kidderminster, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by the row of dowagers and chaperons. “I trust you will be fixed in town for some time?”
Although Esmerelda retained her customary calm, Sarah noted the slight flush staining her friend’s cheeks as she thanked the baron most prettily for his kind welcome to London. Miss Twitchell, blessed with innate good taste, was looking very fine in a pale peach lustring that added a glow to her classic porcelain skin and warmed her tawny eyes to rich amber. No wonder Southwaite was showing an interest. Sarah was rather more than pleased with her own ensemble, which consisted of diaphanous layers of blended blue and green silk chiffon, shot with silver. The hems of each layer were uneven, falling at diagonals that swished quite deliciously about her as she moved. Heavenly! A fitting gown for Miss Esmerelda Twitchell’s newly sophisticated sponsor into the ton.
When Lord Southwaite proceeded to engage both young ladies in conversation for all of fifteen minutes, they realized he had set out quite deliberately to endorse Miss Twitchell’s entry into the ton. A kindness to herself? Sarah wondered. Or had the Wicked Baron, most amazingly, formed a tendre for a girl half his age? Certainly, he would be far from the first gentleman to do so, and yet . . . that was not the correct feel of it. When speaking to Esmerelda, Southwaite did not even indulge in the light flirtation he turned on Sarah herself. So why . . . ?
“Sal, our apologies,” Lord Richard burst out, pushing his way through the crowd in the Roxbury ‘s public rooms, closely followed by Adrian Chumley. “Carriages are lined up for half a mile, don’t you know. Finally got down and walked. Where’s Davenham?”
“Perhaps he did not choose to walk,” Sarah replied coolly. “Miss Twitchell, allow me to introduce my brother, Lord Richard, and I believe you already know Mr. Chumley. Richard, Miss Esmerelda Twitchell.” And what was that remarkable look on Dickon’s face? Quite as if he might strangle on his cravat at any moment.
Since both gentlemen had been dragooned by Lady Davenham into attending the Roxbury’s rout and supporting Miss Twitchell’s entrance into the haut monde, the foursome clung together, wending their way from room to room, introducing the newcomer to all but the highest sticklers. As they entered the supper room where an array of delectable treats was laid out, Sarah let out a sigh of relief. They had done it. They had traversed all the rooms open for the rout, even peeked into the card room, yet encountered nothing worse than curious stares and the certainty that they left a good many whispers behind as Miss Twitchell’s possible family tree was the best conversational bone the dowagers had had to chew on for weeks.
But where was Davenham? He had promised!
Sarah had not spent so much as a single evening with him since their return to London. Infamous! If Harlan was not with Dickon and Chumley, then where was he?
The answer that came to mind was crushing. And so early in the evening at that! If he arrived reeking of La LeFay’s perfume, she would give him the cut direct. Indeed, she would!
As if conjured by her anger, a hand gripped her upper arm. “Shocking squeeze,” Lord Davenham declared. “Miss Twitchell, Dickon, Chumley”—the viscount sketched an abrupt nod—“let us repair to the garden. It’s taken me half the night to get here and a half hour to find you in the crush, and how you’ve endured this hot-house so long I cannot imagine. Come!”
“What kept you?” Sarah hissed as Davenham wound his way through the crowd, heading for the tall doors that led into the garden at the rear of the house.
“Carriage accident. By the time all were rescued, my clothes were quite done up. Had to go home and change.”
“You were in an accident!”
“No, no. I merely stopped to help. Could scarcely come to the Roxbury’s in all my dirt and blood.”
“Blood! What blood?”
“Do not trouble yourself, Sal,” said Davenham airily as he threw open the door to the garden. “I assure you, ’twas not mine.”
Eyeing her husband with some slight skepticism—a most convenient carriage accident, was it not?—Sarah leaned in a little and sniffed. Soap, something faintly exotic—sandalwood perhaps . . . and essence of Davenham. A particularly heady brew. Perhaps he was telling the truth, after all. What was important, she told herself sternly, was that Harlan was here. And, miracle of miracles, they could wander freely in the garden because they were married. Only vaguely recalling her duty to Esmerelda, Sarah was content to leave her friend to Dickon and Mr. Chumley, while her husband led their parade of five toward an area surrounded by a boxwood hedge.
Obviously, he had been here before. When? And with whom?
And then they were all inside this sheltered corner of the garden where a small fountain gurgled its soothing message into the night. Where the high-pitched tones of the ladies and the rumbles of the men at the rout could no longer be heard and white marble benches shone invitingly in the moonlight. Sarah bit her lip, afraid she might cry. It was so wonderfully romantic. Surely Davenham had not come here solely to escape the pressing crowd within?
“How lovely,” Esmerelda declared. “My lord, thank you for arranging our escape.”
“Davenham’s up to all the tricks,” Adrian Chumley declared. “Daresay he knows every secret garden nook in town. Oww!” Lord Richard had poked him, none too gently, in the ribs.
“Shall we sit down?” Richard invited Esmerelda. “The only problem with this place that I can see,” he said to his brother-in-law, “is that we will be loathe to return to the crush inside.”
“And a great relief to know no sharp-eyed tabby’s about to come down on us like a whirlwind,” Mr. Chumley said in heartfelt accents. “I mean, Lady Sarah—Lady Davenham—is a far cry from the usual chaperon, and that’s a fact.”
“Sarah, a chaperon?” Lord Davenham choked.
“I certainly am!” his wife retorted. He
r suspicions about the “carriage accident” resurfaced. Had Harlan been reluctant to arrive at the Roxbury’s because he disdained the thought of a possible encounter with the Mrs. Prunella Twitchell?
At that moment Davenham let out an unexpected groan and removed his arm from around her shoulders, where he had placed it after seating her on one of the marble benches. “What is it?” Sarah inquired softly. “Is something wrong?”
“Pulled my shoulder prying a rather large lady out of that carriage. It’s stiffening a bit is all. Be right as rain in a day or two.”
“Oh.” She was such a fool, imagining deception that did not exist, feeling sorry for herself, when she was sitting hip to hip with her husband in quite the most romantic spot they had yet shared. A pity the chaperon was also chaperoned. If not for the presence of the three seated on the far side of the fountain, Sarah might have been more daring—shockingly daring—offering sympathy that might even lead to touching her husband, perhaps as far as a kiss upon his cheek. “Do you wish to go home?” Sarah asked.
Davenham’s gaze began at the brilliants on the toes of her satin slippers, wandered up over the layers of blue and green chiffon shot with silver threads that caught the moonlight, and lingered on the swell of her bosom above the fashionably low neckline. “Sapphires,” he murmured. “You must have sapphires to go with that gown.”
Sarah, having hoped for something more romantic, blinked, bit her lip. “Sapphires would be delightful, my lord,” she murmured. Harlan’s survey of her person had been like setting a match to tinder. She burned. And yet her husband talked of gemstones as if he had noticed no more than the color of her gown.
The viscount put his arm back around her, this time around her waist. “After the night I have had, my dear, I am content to enjoy the peace a while longer, if you do not mind. How fortunate there is no dancing, as I fear I would not be able to raise my arm to do the figures properly.”
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