“I’ll speak to you later, Sophie,” he said grimly. “I have other business I must attend to right now.”
“Oh! Well, if you must.” Her plump, white fingers clutched at his sleeve. “I was hoping to have one dance with you, Theo. I should like it ever so much.” The roses bloomed again in her cheeks. “We’ve done just about everything else together, but we’ve never danced.”
The idea was so preposterous, Theo couldn’t bring himself to dignify it with an answer. He simply turned his back on his soon to be ex-mistress and walked away. He could feel her puzzled gaze follow him as he collected his mother and wound his way through the crowd to where the squire and Miss Barrington waited. Determinedly, he shrugged off his brief twinge of guilt at the thought of her apparent bewilderment. If Sophie chose to be dense, she would simply have to live with the consequences.
Maeve had always had a quick temper, but she couldn’t remember ever having felt a rage equal to that which consumed her at the moment. To begin with, she’d been treated to a lecture from her father, of all people, on the impropriety of inviting a “loose woman” to drink tea at Barrington Hall.
“I felt certain the earl’s mistress and Mrs. Pinkert would have much in common,” she’d explained sourly.
The squire’s eyes fairly bulged from his head. “Emma Pinkert may be no better’n she should be, but she knows her place and keeps it,” he said indignantly. “Which is more’n I can say for that trollop Lynley takes his pleasure with. But not to worry. Mark my word, daughter, the widow’ll be last week’s news once ye slip the leg shackles on him. I ain’t blind, you know. I seen the way he looked at ye when the two of ye were dancing.”
“But I am not marrying the Earl of Lynley. Have you forgotten it is my shy, retiring twin whom you’re planning to sacrifice for the sake of this monstrous scheme of yours? How will a gentle creature, such as you’ve described Meg to be, cope with a husband who has no more respect for her than to invite his mistress to his engagement ball?”
The squire’s silence was an answer in itself, which left Maeve to wonder why her sister, or indeed any woman in her right mind, would consider marrying a man like the Earl of Lynley. She had met some conceited fools in her day; Lily had favored men of that ilk. But the arrogant, full-of-himself earl made the gaggle of titled rakes who had clustered around her mother look like innocent school boys.
She watched him give an imperious wave of his hand, alerting his waiting servants to circulate among his guests with glasses of champagne to toast his engagement. How charming!
“The cat’ll soon be out of the bag now,” the squire said smugly, as a sound like the buzzing of a hive of bees spread through the assembly of curious guests. His words were somewhat slurred and Maeve realized he was in his cups, as were his three cronies, who converged on him demanding to know what was going on.
“Bounced me bran-faced daughter off to a blooming belted earl, that’s what,” he gloated, too pleased with himself to keep the secret a moment longer. This privileged communication instantly inspired his hunting companions to make earthy conjectures on what the wedding night of said daughter and a rakehell like Lynley might entail. By the time the earl and his mother arrived to take their places beside her and her father in front of the raised platform on which the musicians were gathered, Maeve was red of face and spitting mad.
And she soon realized her torture had just begun.
The earl’s speech was a masterpiece of sham and fabrication. If she didn’t know better, she would think, from the glowing words he used to describe his bride-to-be, that after a lifetime of searching he had finally found the one woman who would make him the perfect wife, the perfect mother of his children and the perfect countess. He did not, of course, mention the fact that her huge dowry was the perfect solution to the financial problems with which he was reportedly beset.
It was all so false. Particularly since the Widow Whitcomb had moved to within a few feet of where he stood and stared at him with soulful brown eyes the entire time he delivered his tongue-in-cheek address.
Mrs. Whitcomb brushed a tear from her cheek and all at once Maeve was struck with an eerie premonition of disaster. There was an air of pathetic vulnerability about the widow that brought back painful memories of a friend of Lily’s—a pretty dimwit who had made the fatal mistake of falling in love with her protector.
A shiver crawled Maeve’s spine as she recalled the cold January morning when Lily and she were called upon to identify the girl’s body, found floating face-down in the Thames shortly after the titled rake delivered his congé. Maeve shivered again and silently prayed Mrs. Whitcomb’s was a stronger, more resilient nature.
She found herself wondering why a high-stickler like the dowager countess would permit her son’s mistress to be invited to Ravenswood for any occasion, much less one as important as his engagement ball. It had to have been the earl, himself, who made up the guest list, which meant he was an even more insensitive lout than she had imagined.
Things were certainly done differently in the country than in London society. The same admirers who’d fawned over Lily at the Cyprians’ Balls and entertained her in their private boxes at the theatre had cut her dead if they met her in Hyde Park with their “proper” ladies on their arms.
But, Maeve reminded herself, who was she to judge anyone on a lack of propriety? At least Lynley didn’t represent himself to be someone he was not. In her own way, she was even more despicable than he—a hired imposter who had demanded an obscene amount of money for a sordid piece of work. The only innocent in this whole miserable fiasco was her sister, and Maeve made herself a solemn vow that no matter what it cost her, she would save Meg from the unhappy fate the squire and the earl had planned for her.
With that in mind, she managed a somewhat strained smile when the earl concluded his artful piece of claptrap and raised her fingers to his lips. Luckily, she was not called upon to converse with the handsome hypocrite or with her gloating father. She was instantly deluged with well-wishers, most of whom made it all too clear they were utterly amazed that the Earl of Lynley would consider marrying a plain-faced commoner like Meg Barrington. Furthermore, from the venomous looks the Dowager cast in her direction, it was plain she agreed with them.
Maeve survived the hour or so of backhanded congratulations with stoic indifference, but once the crowd around her thinned, she decided she’d had enough.
“I’m tired and I want to go home,” she said to her father. The squire looked at her as if she’d just sprouted an extra head. “Ye’re daft. The party’s just getting interesting and I’ve no intention of leaving.”
“You may live to regret that decision, sir,” Maeve said, aware the earl could hear every word of their conversation. “If I have to listen to one more person tell me how fortunate I am to have won the admiration of the Earl of Lynley, I swear I shall scream. Are these people all as idiotic as they appear or is it a deep, dark secret that he must marry an heiress to save his precious Ravenswood?”
The squire’s face contorted with rage. “Demme it, girl, keep a civil tongue in yere head. I’ll not have ye mucking up me plans.”
“I can understand your fatigue, Miss Barrington; I, too, am tired of standing in one spot.” The smile the earl turned on Maeve was the same amicable one he had worn for the past hour, but the look in his eyes was murderous. “I hear the musicians tuning up for another waltz. Shall we dance?”
“No thank you, my lord. I do not feel the least inclined toward dancing.”
“To be perfectly truthful, neither do I, Miss Barrington. But for the sake of propriety, we must keep up appearances.” Without further ado, he grasped Maeve’s elbow in a vice-like grip and propelled her through the crowd of watching guests and onto the dance floor.
“Propriety!” Maeve gasped. “How can you have the gall to mention the word? Or are you so ignorant of social custom you consider it appropriate to invite your mistress to the ball at which you announce your engagement?”
Theo swallowed hard. He could see he’d made a serious error in judgment where his intended was concerned. She was neither as naive nor as reticent to speak her mind as he’d been led to believe. There was no point in trying to lie his way out of this one. She had him dead to rights.
“If you are referring to Mrs. Whitcomb, it was all a mistake and none of my doing,” he explained with the same careful patience he normally reserved for his mother when she was being her most difficult. “My man-of-affairs sent a card to everyone of note in the vicinity, which, of course, included the widow of our late alderman.
“I am devastated to think her presence caused you a moment of pain and embarrassment, dear lady,” he purred in the dulcet tones that had inspired many an incomparable of the ton to offer herself to him body and soul.
“Don’t be an ass!” Miss Barrington frowned. “Why would you think her presence would disturb me, my lord? I do not care in the least how you conduct your personal affairs; ours is purely a business arrangement negotiated between you and my father. When I questioned your lack of consideration for a woman’s sensitivities, I was thinking of Mrs. Whitcomb. One has only to look into those pathetic bovine eyes of hers to recognize the foolish creature believes herself in love with you. Think of the pain you caused her, prattling on about how happy you were to marry another woman, when most likely you’d warmed her bed but twenty-four hours earlier.”
For the first time in his life, Theo found himself utterly speechless. He didn’t have to pretend shock at his betrothed’s bizarre reaction to the unusual situation they found themselves in; he was jolted to the core by her unconventional attitude.
“Miss Barrington!” he exclaimed, when he finally found his voice. “This is not a conversation I would expect to be having with my future wife.”
“And why not, my lord? I believe in speaking the truth as I see it.”
Theo felt consumed with anger at the injustice of her accusation and the insult it implied. “I have already explained it was not my fault she was invited to this ball,” he said coldly. “Furthermore, for your information, there has never been a question of love between Sophie Whitcomb and me. We are friends, nothing more, as we have been since we played together as children.”
Miss Barrington’s eyes fairly blazed. “Which telling statement only proves you are even more callous than I had judged you to be. For no right-thinking man would subject a friend to the kind of scorn Mrs. Whitcomb must suffer at the hands of the so-called proper folk of the village—to say nothing of the position she will be in once you tire of her and withdraw your patronage.”
She raked him with a look of such loathing, it was all Theo could do to keep from cringing. “You, of course, will simply have enhanced your reputation as a charming rogue when you end the sordid affair. Men are never called to account for their actions in such matters.”
Theo stared at her. Stunned. Nothing in his background had prepared him to defend his treatment of his mistress to the woman he was pledged to marry—a woman who, by rights, should not even be aware of the existence of the demimonde.
The balance of the waltz was accomplished in uneasy silence. Like it or not, Miss Barrington had forced him to take a good look at what he had done to Sophie when he’d made her his mistress. Something he had never before considered. The picture was not a pretty one. Nor did it help that he could see the object of his betrothed’s concern standing alone in a far corner of the ballroom—a plump, purple pariah, shunned by the proper folk of the village.
The set finally came to an end and with Miss Barrington on his arm, he exited the dance floor. She was the first to break their long silence. “Well, that’s that then, my lord. I believe I have fulfilled my duty as far as this evening is concerned. If any of your guests should remark on my absence, you have my permission to tell them I retired with a headache.”
She pressed her slender, tapered fingers to her left temple, as if to prove her headache did, indeed, exist. “Since my father refuses to escort me home, I would appreciate the loan of one of your carriages.”
Theo dropped her arm and executed a courtly bow. “Your servant, ma’am,” he said and hailing a nearby footman, requested a carriage be brought around.
A full moon greeted him when he escorted Miss Barrington to her waiting conveyance. A “lovers’ moon” he’d often heard it called. The irony of the term as applied to him at the moment brought a bitter smile to his lips.
“Goodnight, my lord. It has been a most informative evening,” Miss Barrington said, and maneuvering the single step into his carriage without aid, settled herself on the seat facing forward. With a final curt nod in his direction, she tapped on the roof of the cab with her fan to signal the coachman she was ready to be driven home.
Long after the carriage had disappeared down the drive, Theo stood alone at the foot of the steps leading to the entrance to Ravenswood. “A most informative evening” his betrothed had called it shortly after she’d castigated him for his lack of concern for his mistress’s feelings and informed him that he was of no more consequence to her than the beetle she’d squashed beneath her heel in her rush to quit his presence.
And what had he done when the prickly little porcupine loosed her quills at him? Defended himself with all the brilliance and sophistication of a ten year old caught with his fingers in the jam jar, that’s what. But in all fairness, she had taken him unawares; proper young ladies did not normally concern themselves with the fate of their “fallen sisters.” He found himself wondering if, God forbid, he had allied himself with one of those radical Methodist ladies who devoted their energies to bringing sinners back into the fold.
Whatever her reasoning might be, he couldn’t remember ever having spent a more unusual or a more frustrating evening than the one just past, thanks to the puzzling woman he had chosen as his future wife. Until a few hours ago he had believed that, despite his precarious financial position, he was conferring a unique honor on the plain little nobody by offering her his name and the ancient title that went with it. Now he was not so certain.
Difficult as it was to comprehend, he was beginning to think this commonplace daughter of a humble country squire was not the least bit taken with the idea of becoming the next Countess of Lynley. Oddly enough, he found this more challenging than infuriating.
It was imperative that he secure the Barrington money for Ravenswood; since the heiress was apparently not interested in his title, he would simply have to educate her concerning the other advantages that marriage to him offered.
He smiled to himself. If the one kiss they had shared so far was any example, he would thoroughly enjoy his role of teacher.
The morning after the ball dawned gray and chilly—more like autumn than spring. With Maeve’s first glance out her chamber window, she decided the likelihood of rain was much too strong to risk a walk. Instead, she stretched beneath the covers, put her hands behind her head and gave serious thought to the disaster she’d made of Meg’s betrothal ball.
What had the squire instructed her to do to insure everyone would think she was Meg? “Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut.” Ten minutes into the wretched ball, she’d raised her eyes and looked at the earl, and nothing had gone right from that moment on.
But how could she have been so foolish as to expect she could successfully impersonate a woman whose personality was the exact opposite of her own?
She rolled onto her side, propped her head on her elbow and surveyed her twin’s tasteful bedchamber. Her gaze lighted on the shelf holding Meg’s collection of beautifully preserved, exquisitely dressed dolls. The only doll she’d ever owned had ended up in the dustbin, headless and sans one arm.
A tambour frame holding an intricately embroidered runner stood in one corner, an easel supporting a partially completed watercolor in another. She’d never sewn a stitch nor painted a picture. The room was filled with the accouterments one would expect a proper lady to collect. By some miracle, despite her vulgar surroundings, Meg had appar
ently emerged that lady.
Maeve knew for a fact there was not a ladylike bone in her body. She was a courtesan’s brat by birth, a bluestocking by nature—neither of which qualified her for any role but that of a sharp-tongued hoyden. A role she’d played to the hilt last evening.
There would surely be repercussions; even a pockets-to-let rake like the Earl of Lynley would have to be desperate to take such a woman to wife. Well so be it. She may have put a crimp in the squire’s plans—and probably her own—but chances were she’d solved Meg’s problem.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had been too keyed up to eat much dinner and had left the ball before supper was served. She doubted Mrs. Pinkert would be in the kitchen at this hour; neither she nor the squire appeared to be early risers. There was nothing for it but to cook her own breakfast—a thing she was accustomed to doing since she was an early riser and neither Lily nor Bridget ever rose before noon.
She washed her face and hands, dressed in a pretty yellow muslin morning dress from Meg’s hoard of bride clothes and found her way to the kitchen without encountering a soul. Apparently the two new maids were the same kind of slug-a-beds as the rest of the household.
Slicing three thick slices of bacon from a slab she found in the larder, she proceeded to cook herself a meal of bacon, toast and coddled eggs. She had just taken her first bite of the hearty repast when a sleepy Mrs. Pinkert opened the kitchen door.
“Lord luv us, Miss Meg, what are you doing in my kitchen?” she demanded. She stared at the heaping plate in front of Maeve, and her bleary eyes widened. “When did you learn to cook? And bacon of all things? Last time I made the mistake of serving you hog meat, you come near to casting up your accounts at the very sight of it.”
The Madcap Masquerade Page 6
