“My lady, you cannot mean it,” Ryl breathed, awed. “You would not—”
Lady Davenham’s eyes danced with the perfectly delicious irony of her thoughts. “If I am not allowed to personally rescue young females in distress, then I am vastly tempted to approach the challenge from a quite different direction. Perhaps I should write to Mrs. Portia Berrisford.”
“She could return the will to the cats and dogs!” Ryl told her roundly.
“Ah . . . so you are willing to advise me, after all, Miss LeFay. Although it is perfectly lowering to acknowledge that you are right. I must not stir up trouble, else Harlan’s great sacrifice will have been for nothing.”
“My lady . . .” Ryl choked, her facile tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“It is quite all right.” Sarah stood, picked up her bonnet, placed it on her head, tying the ribbons with care. “I was merely thinking out loud. I would never betray Davenham in such a fashion. But I promise you I will not forget my purpose. I will find a way to divert some of the money into helping women who wish to turn their backs on such a life.
“And, Miss LeFay,” Sarah added, her small stature enhanced by the determined tilt of her chin and the noble bearing of a daughter of a marquess, “when the time comes—as it most definitely will—when my husband gives you your congé, may I recommend my friend Baron Southwaite? I believe the two of you would suit. And may I add that nothing sly is intended in that remark. It is a compliment to you both. Good-day, Miss LeFay.”
Lady Davenham swept out of the parlor with her maid scurrying in her wake. Behind them, Amaryllis LeFay sat staring straight ahead, feeling the full weight of the life she had led. She was at the top of her profession, exquisitely beautiful, her figure alone enough to drive men wild. She could converse on any number of esoteric topics from art to politics, and yet she had just been bested by an untried, fresh-faced chit of eighteen, barely out of the schoolroom.
By her lover’s wife.
By her sometime lover’s wife. There was no longer any doubt about the why of Davenham’s recent distraction. What elderly courtesan of twenty-seven could possibly compete with that?
The courage, the determination, the sheer audacity . . .
Davenham didn’t stand a chance.
Feeling like an ancient crone, Ryl hauled herself to her feet and sat at her Louis Quinze escritoire. Taking out a sheet of lavender-scented paper, which suddenly seemed a vulgar affectation, she began a short letter: Davenham . . . I must tell you of the visitor I had this morning. Please attend me at your earliest convenience. Ryl.
Amaryllis LeFay was still very much in Lady Davenham’s thoughts early the next afternoon as she prepared to receive callers on her “at home” day. Yesterday, Harlan, accompanied by Dickon and Adrian Chumley, had gone off to a mill far enough away to require an overnight stay in the country. What the attraction was in watching two men pound each other to a pulp Sarah could not fathom, but Davenham’s absence had provided the perfect opportunity for her call on Amaryllis LeFay.
Sarah winced at the recollection. How she had lied! Harlan was never going to leave Amaryllis LeFay. Never ever. She was perfect, everything Sarah would never be if she lived to be a hundred.
And the risk she had taken on top of the Bow Street scandal! What if someone had seen her? What if Harlan found out? Would Miss LeFay tell him? Surely not. She had boasted of her discretion.
But if she had feared that Sarah was going to do something drastic, plunge into dangerous waters . . .
Sarah groaned, pounded her fist on the scroll arm of the settee. Devil a bit, she had made a mull of it.
“Mrs. Ephraim Twitchell,” Hughes announced, somehow managing in those few syllables to express his grave disapproval of Lady Davenham’s caller.
“No, no, my lady,” Prunella Twitchell boomed as she sailed across the drawing room toward her hostess, “never get up for the likes of me. Imagine! A viscountess on her feet for a tottering old Cit. Sit, your ladyship, sit!” Mrs. Twitchell, garbed today in a gown of spring green and gold stripes with an incongruous and glaringly clashing shawl of Stewart plaid, settled her bulging figure into the throne chair lately occupied by the Marchioness of Rotherwick and regarded Sarah with eyes far sharper than her tongue.
After repressing an uncharitable rush of relief that Harlan was not home, Sarah welcomed her visitor, adding that she hoped Mrs. Twitchell’s arrival without her niece did not mean that Miss Twitchell was ill.
“Oh no, dearie—my lady,” Prunella Twitchell declared. “I sent Laura and Essy off to Bond Street just so you and me could have a coze.” Although the elder lady was wearing a huge bonnet—ruched, multi-flowered, and plumed—Lady Davenham did not miss the broad wink aimed in her direction.
Sarah cringed. Bow Street. Mrs. Twitchell had heard about Bow Street. Or had news already reached her of the visit to Amaryllis LeFay? Horrible, horrible, to be quailing before the knowing eye of a Prunella Twitchell.
“I’ve come to ask you, my lady, point-blank, about the intentions of the gentlemen that’s hanging out for our Essy.” Mrs. Twitchell gestured with her red silk parasol, stabbing it into the carpet with some vigor. “This Southwaite Essy talks of and your scamp of a brother, Lord Richard. Is there any expectation there, or is it all a hum? Is Southwaite done up and needs her blunt? No question, of course, if a second son needs to feather his nest. Fool if he don’t look to finding a well-dowered wife. Can’t blame him for that, but I was hoping poor Essy might find a love match as well.” Mrs. Twitchell’s chair rocked as she heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Goodness knows she’s talked our ears off about both of ’em, but it’s hard for an old lady like me to tell, so hard.”
Sarah, astounded, could only sit and stare when Prunella Twitchell wound down at last, giving her hostess an opportunity to reply. What could she possibly say? That Lord Richard had sworn to put off marriage until the Thames ran dry?
But so had Harlan. And as for Southwaite . . .
Well, you see, Mrs. Twitchell, I don’t believe you have any fear of Lord Southwaite because I think he may be Essy’s father . . .
Prunella Twitchell recovered her breath. “Now the son of a markis is all right and good,” she pronounced, “but it’s this Southwaite what has the title. A baron, ain’t he? It’s a good deal more than we ever hoped for her, o’course, and it may be he has quite a different position in mind for our Essy, if you’ll pardon me speakin’ the plain truth. ’Tis said he’s a rake of the first stare. Is that so, my lady, for if’n it is, I must speak to Lord Davenham. You’re far too young to stand up to the likes of him that’s called the Wicked Baron.”
“Lady Rotherwick and Miss Amalie Ainsworth.” The abject horror in Hughes’s tone was no less than Sarah felt. This, then, was the punishment for her sins. For driving her curricle in the park. For Bow Street. For calling on a courtesan.
“Mama, Amalie,” Sarah murmured. Bracing herself, she made the necessary introductions.
Lady Rotherwick raised her lorgnette, studying Mrs. Twitchell from the multitude of poppies on her bonnet to her Stewart shawl over the green and gold striped gown, and finally to the scarlet parasol, beaded and fringed. “An aunt by marriage?” she inquired.
“Yes, indeed, Your Grace, you have the right of it,” Mrs. Twitchell declared, seemingly oblivious to her faux pas. “Married to Esmerelda’s father’s brother I be. No blood connection, no indeed. Her ma was a lady, daughter of the squire. “Striking girl, Clarice. Everyone adored her. George could scarce believe his luck when she accepted his offer. Though she died birthing their fourth boy, so I’ve been her ma ever since.”
Sarah caught Amalie’s gaze. Her sister visibly shuddered. In desperation, Lady Davenham rang for refreshments. Since Hughes had anticipated the request, the four ladies were quietly enjoying tea and almond macaroons and making desultory conversation when another visitor was announced.
“Lord Southwaite,” said Hughes.
The baron strode forward, smiling. “My dear Lady
Rotherwick, how delightful to find you here.” With a courtly flourish he kissed the air above her hand. “And Lady Amalie. Enchanting, as always.” He reached for her hand as well.
A great whoosh of breath. A Staffordshire tea cup, saucer, and flood of tea tumbled onto the Persian carpet, the red parasol crashing down to shatter the fine porcelain as Mrs. Twitchell sagged in her chair, gasping for air.
“Mama, your vinaigrette!” Sarah cried.
“Burnt feathers,” Amalie declared. “You there, she called to the butler, “bring feathers at once.”
Sarah waved her mother’s gold filigreed vinaigrette case under Mrs. Twitchell’s nose to little effect, but the arrival of feathers and a candle soon had them all wrinkling their noses and coughing discreetly behind their hands. Mrs. Twitchell straightened to a lopsided slouch, waving the acrid stench away with her hand. Hughes removed the candle and the remains of the feathers while signaling a housemaid to begin cleaning up the spill.
“You cannot be Southwaite,” Prunella Twitchell moaned. “You are Geoffrey Hatton, I know you are. Twenty years and when I saw you, it might well have been yesterday. Still sinfully handsome and wicked as ever.”
“Not quite as wicked as ever,” Geoffrey replied with a certain ruefulness. “And, yes, I am both Geoffrey Hatton and Lord Southwaite, for I inherited the title from a cousin some fifteen years ago.”
“But . . . you dreadful beast! You’ve been courting our Essy when you know quite well—”
“Never, madam, I assure you. I have only been attempting to ensure her acceptance into the ton.”
Lady Rotherwick and her daughters watched in fascination as this odd colloquy continued.
Prunella Twitchell grabbed the arm of her chair, pulling herself upright. She straightened her bonnet. “The dowry, that was you, wasn’t it? For poor George, with four sons to provide for, could never have done so well by her.”
“I fear so, ma’am. For a number of years I did not know about Esmerelda. I should have returned to Worcestershire to discover how things went with Clarice, but I was young and heedless and did not do so for some months. By that time she was wed to your brother, who, by the way, has my admiration as a true gentleman. When I became Southwaite, I arranged Esmerelda’s dowry through our solicitors, but Twitchell guessed the source of the funds and sent me a very gracious note.”
Prunella Twitchell fished a handkerchief out of her reticule and buried her face in its folds, her shoulders heaving with stifled sobs.
“You’re Esmerelda’s father?” came Lord Richard’s voice from the drawing room doorway where he and Davenham had just entered the room.
“I believe you have the gist of it,” Lord Davenham drawled.
Sarah’s brother began to laugh, great rolling chuckles assaulting the ears of the solemn group arrayed before him. “To think . . . to think,” Dickon burbled, staring at Southwaite, “that I considered you my most serious rival. I even lectured Miss Twitchell on the folly of considering a man so much older than herself.” Another bout of chortles ensued before he sobered, adding, “Does she know?”
“Richard!” Lady Rotherwick raked her son with a look that would have annihilated Medusa’s snakes.
“She does not!” Mrs. Twitchell declared.
“I did,” Sarah said. “And if I had only to look at the two of them together to see that their eyes were a perfect match, as well a similar coloring of hair and face, then how could Esmerelda not see it every time she looked in a glass?”
There was a profound silence as this rather shocking admission was examined by everyone present. “How long?” the baron inquired in strangled tones.
“Since shortly after we returned from Brighton,” Sarah told him.
“You have discussed this with her?”
“No. I kept telling myself I was mistaken, that I was being quite, quite foolish. As usual,” Sarah added on a whisper.
“I had thought it best that Esmerelda never know, but it seems the truth is now necessary,” Lord Southwaite said in accents far more humble than anyone had ever heard him use. “I trust, however, that we may keep this tale to ourselves.”
“Of course,” Harlan assured him. “There is no one here who wishes Miss Twitchell ill.” There was a general murmur of agreement.
“Actually, this is dashed convenient,” Lord Richard declared with more insouciance that was perhaps appropriate to the moment. “With both Mrs. Twitchell and Southwaite present, I wish to ask for permission to pay my addresses to Miss Twitchell.”
“Richard!” Lady Rotherwick moaned, resting her forehead on her long slim fingers.
“Dickon, you numbskull,” Amalie cried, “have you no sensitivity?”
But Lord Southwaite’s solemn face had taken on a decided twinkle. “You still want her then?” he asked.
“Half the ton ain’t sure of its parentage, Baron.”
“Dickon!” Sarah cried. Amalie jumped up, this time waving the vinaigrette under her mother’s nose.
“I’m sure I never meant you, mama,” Lord Richard protested. “We Ainsworth are as alike as five peas in a pod . . . well, Wycliffe and Amalie can be as stiff as a pike, but the looks are there, no doubt— Oof!”
“I am sure my dear brother-in-law meant no insult,” said Harlan smoothly after elbowing his friend none too gently in the ribs. “He was carried away by the fervor of his interest in Miss Twitchell. He will”—Lord Davenham turned a stern eye on his friend—“call upon Mrs. Twitchell and Southwaite when he may be private with each.”
“Oh, naturally. Tomorrow then,” Lord Richard mumbled.
“Hughes,” said Lady Davenham to the butler who was hovering quite unashamedly in the doorway, ears pricked and mouth agape, “we are not home to any further callers.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lord Davenham tossed his reins to his groom, jumped down from his curricle, only to find his feet slowing as he approached the entrance of the house on Newburgh Place. When had this metamorphosis come about? he wondered. When had he stopped rushing up Ryl’s steps, ready for a rousing romp, eager to lose himself in her arms? When had their conversations become more those of friends than of lovers? When had his heart gone heavy and his feet turned to lead as he approached one of London’s most skilled courtesans?
No need to spell it out, of course. He knew quite well what had happened. And, in all fairness, he could blame only himself. Little Sally Ainsworth might have ruined his comfortable life, but it was he and his impossible agreement that had put the weapons in her hand. She was leading him on a steeplechase par excellence, with the obstacles becoming more hazardous at every turn. Each morning he opened his eyes to a question of what would his little Sal do next. As the maid opened Ryl’s door, he had a most terrible feeling that he was about to find out.
When Harlan joined Ryl in her comfortable parlor, he had never felt less like a lover. Nor did he notice how carefully she had arranged herself on the rose brocade sofa, or how exquisitely lovely she looked with her waves of black hair tumbling about her shoulders, her naturally fine features artfully enhanced by a minimum of artifice, her bosom revealed, rather than concealed, by a perfectly fitted high-necked gown of ivory silk. Dutifully, Harlan kissed the bare hand she held out to him before flipping up his tails and seating himself in the Chippendale chair so recently occupied by his wife.
“Oh, my dear,” Ryl sighed, “you look like a bear who has not yet had his breakfast.”
Lord Davenham managed a wry smile. “I fear the mill was not my only excitement since I last saw you. It would seem the even tenor of my days has taken a palpable hit. I thought myself caught in a steeplechase, but I begin to fear it may, instead, be a maelstrom with no way out at all. In steeplechases of old there was always a goal—the church spire at the end of a difficult cross-country run. But at the moment I feel more like a dog chasing its tail. No matter what I do, there is no end in sight.”
“Ah.” Ryl opened her fan, snapped it closed. “She is a darling, your wife. I lik
ed her.”
“I beg your pardon.” Jarred from his morose and wandering thoughts, Lord Davenham focused on his mistress, shuttering his usually amiable features behind the arrogance of his rank and station.
“I assure you I would never have thought of revealing her secret,” Ryl assured him, “if I had not thought that she might endanger herself.”
“What secret?” Harlan barked.
Ryl drew herself up from her semi-prone position to face her lover squarely. “Merely that she visited me yesterday,” she returned mildly. “Nothing more. She is a honorable lady, your wife. I quite understand your fascination.”
“She came here?” Harlan whispered. When Ryl nodded, he added a heartfelt, “Bloody hell!”
“She wished my advice, you see. It seems her heart was quite torn by the ladies of the evening she met in Bow Street. So much so, she wishes to rescue country girls before they can be taken up in the clutches of the old women who sell them to brothels.”
“My God!” Davenham breathed, pulling at his dark hair.
“I told her she was like to be snatched for a brothel herself, and she seemed to understand the danger, but I could not be sure, so I am betraying the poor child only so you may be sure she does not embark on this quixotic quest.”
“Damnation.” His head whirling with visions of Sarah caught in the nightmare world of London’s houses of ill repute, Harlan’s expletive was so soft it barely escaped his mouth. “You say she was here yesterday . . . then she cannot have had time to implement her plan. And this afternoon she was occupied with . . . other matters. Therefore . . . I must be off immediately.” Lord Davenham jumped to his feet. “My thanks, Ryl. As ever, you are my friend.” He strode from the room far more eagerly than he had entered.
Behind him, Amaryllis LeFay allowed herself a few moments of reflection. Friend. Alas, that was indeed the correct word. In the span of a few weeks passion had been reduced to friendship. And quite soon, she suspected, to nothing at all.
Steeplechase Page 18
