Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance)

by Counts, Wilma

  “Come,” Harriet said to both of them. “We had better take our little pugilist home. She is attracting far too much notice.”

  Annabelle’s anger with both Ferris and Beelson festered. They continued to frequent social affairs she attended, though neither accorded her special attention any longer—and for that she could only be grateful. However, she had twice observed Beelson eyeing her in a rather calculating manner. She dismissed such observation, thinking he was probably still fuming because his puffed lip and swollen nose had required that he absent himself from Society for a couple of days.

  Her third would-be suitor, Luke Wainwright, continued to seek her out and she tried to be patient with his youthful posturing. She liked Mr. Wainwright. He was an amiable fellow, although often too intense, tending to take himself far too seriously. A well-featured young man, he possessed gray eyes and wore his brown hair slightly longer than most men did—and in a style that was clearly a studied imitation of his favorite poet. He dressed in the fashion of a veritable pink of the ton with colorful waistcoats, high shirt points, and elaborately tied cravats.

  Wainwright had been sending her his own poetic offerings on a nearly daily basis. Although they occasionally took the form of an epic or a painfully contrived sonnet, these were usually only a few lines of doggerel accompanying a bouquet of flowers.

  One afternoon, however, Annabelle and Harriet attended the Baroness Oglethorpe’s elaborate “at home” affair when Wainwright happened to be there. Also in attendance were Lord Beelson and Mr. Ferris as well as nearly three dozen other people, most of whom were high-ranking members of the ton.

  Annabelle felt Mr. Wainwright’s gaze dwell on her as she moved about the room, greeting other guests. Celia, who had arrived before Annabelle, beckoned her to a seat on a settee in the center of the room. The two young women were engaged in idle conversation when Mr. Wainwright suddenly fell on his knees before Annabelle. Guests in the immediate vicinity paused in their conversation at this unusual behavior. Annabelle drew in her breath apprehensively. Luke put his clasped hands over his heart and began to declaim,

  All the world is contented well

  When one is able to behold

  The eternal beauties manifold

  Of the goddess Annabelle.

  Her doe eyes and sunlit hair

  Denied a lover bring despair

  To a heart that ever desires

  But to be made whole by such fires.

  Taken aback by the abruptness and the public forum in which he chose to present this latest offering, Annabelle noted muffled laughs and curious gazes directed their way. Despite being embarrassed by the intensity of his emotion and annoyed at his singling her out in such a fashion, she was struck by the humor of both the situation and the sentiment. She began to giggle.

  Celia immediately joined in and the two of them fed on each other’s mirth until they both had tears in their eyes. Others seated or standing nearby were infected by their merriment and their section of the room now rang with laughter. Annabelle suddenly caught sight of a stricken look on Mr. Wainwright’s reddening face.

  “You ... you do not like it?” He sounded plaintive as he struggled awkwardly to his feet.

  She looked up at him and, striving for a more seemly expression, she tried to think of something that might be both truthful and comforting. “I ... I am flattered—”

  “No, you aren’t,” he interrupted. “You are laughing at me.” He turned abruptly and left the room.

  “Oh, dear,” Annabelle murmured into the uneasy silence that followed his dramatic exit.

  She had a fleeting impression of Beelson watching the young man’s departure. The viscount had a speculative look on his face, but then her attention was distracted by Celia’s renewed giggles.

  “ ‘The goddess Annabelle?’ Oh, my. There will be no living with you now.”

  This comment lightened the mood left by Wainwright’s departure. There were a few comments about inferior poetry and the pretensions adopted by Byron’s imitators, but Annabelle refused to encourage these and talk among the company soon turned to other matters. Annabelle was torn between being exasperated with Luke’s behavior and remorseful over his embarrassment. Surely she could have done something to forestall his humiliation. But it had happened so quickly.... Well, perhaps she could find a way later to smooth the young peacock’s ruffled feathers.

  Before she could do so, however, social disaster struck.

  Two

  The first inkling that something was amiss came when Annabelle paid a morning call at the Hart residence. Ostensibly, she called on Celia, but she never failed to visit the Hart nursery as well.

  “I must be assured that you are treating my godchild properly—that is, according her all the privileges to which she is entitled.”

  She knew the Harts were besotted with their tiny daughter—as was the child’s godmother.

  Celia laughed as she handed the babe over to her friend. “Honestly, Annabelle! One would think you had enough of babes in the Wyndham nursery. I know how much time you spend with their son. I vow, you need one of these of your own!”

  “Yes, I probably do,” Annabelle said absently. She cuddled the babe, nuzzling her soft cheek. Little Annie, at six months, smiled and cooed happily. Her small hands reached for Annabelle’s hair and the sparkling brooch at her neck. “No, no, no, sweeting.” She sat down on a windowseat and bounced the baby on her knee as Celia discussed the child’s care with the nursery maid. Finally, they gave the babe over to the maid and the two friends made their way to the Harts’ rather modest drawing room.

  “Would it not be wonderful,” Annabelle said with a laugh, “if your daughter and Wyndham’s son made a match of it one day?”

  Celia rolled her eyes as she reached for the bellpull to order up tea for them. “Annabelle! You cannot be making a match for those children already!”

  “It was just a thought.”

  “I was serious earlier,” Celia said. “You should have a child. You are so good with Annie.”

  Annabelle laughed. “Are you not omitting an important detail?”

  “Oh, pooh!” Celia waved her hand in a dimissive gesture. “You know very well you could be married in no more time than it takes to read the banns!”

  “If I were interested in having a husband merely to father a child, that might be true—but, honestly, Celia, how can you, of all people, suggest such a match for me?” Celia looked a bit chagrined and Annabelle added softly, “I want what you have—I want to be madly, wildly in love with the man I marry.”

  “I—I am not sure that is always possible—or even an absolute necessity for a successful marriage.”

  “I will not have mere ‘success.’ I want real happiness, too! You and Frederick have it. Letty has it with Winters. Harriet and Marcus do as well. I will not settle for second best!”

  Celia smiled. “All or none—is that it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, my dear, if you are to discover this elusive love, you cannot keep refusing invitations.”

  “Refusing invi—? Why, whatever do you mean?” Annabelle was genuinely puzzled.

  “You were not at the Mertons’ breakfast on Wednesday last. You missed Lady Henley’s ‘at home.’ And you were absent from the Paulsons’ ball just last night.”

  “I—I—” Annabelle felt her face growing warm with embarrassment. “I did not know of these events,” she said quietly.

  Celia sounded indignant. “What? Are you telling me you did not receive invitations for them? You?”

  “I am sure I did not.”

  “How very strange . . .”

  Annabelle shrugged. “A hostess cannot invite everyone to every gathering.”

  “Perhaps ...” Celia then changed the subject.

  In the next few days, Annabelle, who had heretofore enjoyed uncommon popularity, found fewer and fewer invitations coming her way. At affairs she did attend, she often encountered an abrupt silence follow
ed by a babble of changed topics when she came into a room. On entering a modiste’s shop one morning, she was given the cut direct by a certain Mrs. Phigby, wife of a baronet.

  Harriet stared after the departing matron who had at least nodded to the countess. “What was that about?”

  “I have no idea,” Annabelle answered. “But I know who will. Letty. I shall call on her this very afternoon.”

  Lady Letitia Atkinson Castlemaine was the daughter of a duke and wife of Jonathan Castlemaine, Marquis of Winters, who would one day inherit a dukedom himself. The Marchioness of Winters was accounted one of the leaders of Society, though she, like Annabelle, had a few months yet before reaching the age of majority. The two young women, along with Celia Berwyn Hart, had been school friends. Celia, too, had married well, though Celia’s beloved Frederick was a mere mister, being the son of a younger son of an earl.

  Annabelle was a frequent visitor to the Winters’s house, but the splendor of Letty’s drawing room always took her breath away. Done in burgundy and gray with touches of silver here and there, it was one of the most elegant of London’s drawing rooms. When Annabelle arrived, she found Celia there also.

  “When I received your note, I sent one around to Celia to join us.” Letty gestured to a place on a settee next to Celia, reached for a bellpull, and instructed the footman who answered to bring up a tea tray.

  “Good. I should have called upon you later anyway, Ceel,” Annabelle said.

  “We saved you the trip then,” Celia replied.

  “You know why I have come?” These were her dearest friends, but Annabelle felt embarrassed about bringing up the subject of her apparent fall from grace.

  “We think so,” Letty answered. “We were just discussing the rumors.” Letty nodded her head of deep auburn curls in Celia’s direction.

  “What rumors?” Annabelle demanded, sorely afraid that she knew. After all, that scene with Beelson had occurred in a rather public place.

  “There are some very unpleasant rumors flying around about you,” Celia said.

  “I thought it must be something like that. What is being said?”

  A long pause ensued as the footman brought in a large tray laden with a teapot, cups, and pastries. Annabelle wanted to scream with impatience as he fussed over the arrangements. When he left, Letty busied herself pouring tea and Celia took over the thread of conversation.

  “We have no idea what the source is, but the tales say you are no better than you should be, and that you have been toying with the Wainwright boy.”

  “Toying with him? Why, I tried for three weeks and more to be rid of him!”

  “We know that.” Letty looked at Celia, who nodded her agreement. “However, there is more. You are also held to have been rather free with your favors. You were seen in the park in a tête à tête with Mr. Ferris, and then kissing Beelson at the Patterson ball.”

  “Being kissed, you mean. He took me by surprise.” Annabelle hated sounding defensive.

  “Annabelle, you need not explain to us,” Celia said.

  “So who is spreading these stories—and to what end?” Annabelle set her untouched tea back on the table and rose to pace impatiently.

  “There is no absolute proof—there never is with something like this,” Letty said, “but my guess is that Beelson and Ferris are behind it. And they seem to have enlisted the support of young Wainwright.”

  “H-how do you know this?” Annabelle asked.

  Celia rose to pat her friend’s shoulder. “Frederick was playing cards at White’s. Beelson and Ferris were there.”

  “They were bandying my name about?” Annabelle was appalled. She allowed herself to be guided back to the settee.

  “No. I gather they were allowing others to do so as they strategically kept silent on the matter, only raising an eyebrow now and then.”

  “That is not all,” Letty added. “Winters saw them at play with Wainwright at Watier’s. Young Wainwright was drinking and playing too deep. Seems he was also rather vocal about his losses at Cupid’s game, too.”

  “Oh, good heavens!” Annabelle exclaimed.

  “Winters said it appeared that Beelson and Ferris were egging him on in his injured sensibilities—at least they did so until they realized Winters was taking notice of what they were doing.”

  “And now the ugliness has spilled over from gaming tables to drawing rooms.” Annabelle’s shoulder slumped disconsolately. She felt her eyes grow moist, but she refused to allow the tears.

  Letty shrugged. “Some men do not take rejection well, it would seem.”

  “Do not worry, Annabelle,” Celia assured her. “The worst is probably over.”

  “How can you say that?” Annabelle hoped, though, that it was true.

  “Well, if the aim were to discredit you, it has not worked terribly well,” Letty said. “I have no intention of dropping you from my invitation lists—yet.” Letty’s impish grin told Annabelle just how preposterous that idea was. “Nor do the patronesses of Almack’s intend to deny you vouchers to their assemblies.”

  “You have talked with them?”

  “Yes. And they agree this is in the nature of a tempest in a teapot.”

  “There! You see? Nothing to worry about,” the ever-optimistic Celia declared.

  “I wonder . . .” Annabelle mused. “Still—I do most sincerely appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

  “What are friends for?” Letty asked with a smile.

  “And—” Annabelle went on, “I am not without resources of my own.”

  “The Wyndhams are likely to be powerful allies as well.” Celia seemed to agree with Annabelle.

  Yes, Annabelle thought, but her resources included not just Marcus and Harriet. She had it in mind to enlist the aid of Miss Emma Bennet.

  Three

  Thorne Wainwright, Earl of Rolsbury, reluctantly and clumsily climbed the steps of his London townhouse.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” his unflappable butler said.

  “Thank you, Perkins. Is my brother here?” Thorne leaned heavily on his walking stick. Five years since Waterloo, yet three days in a traveling coach and his leg stiffened up painfully.

  “Er ... yes, my lord, but I think he has not yet arisen.”

  “Not yet—Good God, man, it is nearly noon!”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Send word that I shall see him in the library in half an hour.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler snapped his fingers at a hovering footman to tell him to see to it.

  Thirty minutes later an obviously hurriedly dressed Luke Wainwright entered the library to find his brother seated behind the huge mahogany desk that dominated the book-lined room. The desk was already strewn with papers.

  “Gads, Thorne, you might have sent some warning you were coming.” Luke sounded youthful, petulant, and defensive.

  “I was unaware of needing permission to visit my own house—any of them.” Thorne rubbed his leg, carefully concealing the action from his brother.

  “That is not what I meant. And what is it you want from me?”

  “Sit down.” Scowling with both discomfort and displeasure, Thorne gestured to a chair in front of the desk. “Now—just what in the hell have you been up to?”

  “I ... I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “For starters, there are all these duns from creditors.” Thorne held up a sheaf of papers. “Do you never bother to check the post for anything but perfumed notes from some lightskirt? Some of these are weeks overdue.”

  Luke ran a finger around his neckcloth, which appeared to have suddenly tightened. “I . . . uh . . . well . . .”

  “Come on. Out with it. Why have you not paid these accounts?”

  “I meant to. But I’ve had uncommonly bad luck at the tables lately, you see, and . . . well . . . a debt of honor comes first, as you know.”

  “Gaming debts? Besides these bills from tradesmen, you have amassed gaming debts as well?” In his anno
yance, Thorne made no effort to control his voice. “I did not encourage you to come to town to create a load of debt in gaming hells!”

  “It—it is not as though I meant to do so. After all, anyone can have a streak of bad luck—”

  Thorne snorted in contempt. “‘Bad luck’ usually translates to lack of skill or too much drink—or some other distraction.”

  Thorne saw a slow flush creep over his brother’s countenance.

  “Yes. Well . . . if you could perhaps give me an advance on next quarter’s allowance . . . ?” His voice trailed off and there was not much hope in it.

  “Yes. Well.” Thorne deliberately repeated Luke’s words. “How much have you lost?”

  Luke’s mouth worked and his neckcloth moved up and down as he swallowed and named a figure.

  Thorne felt his eyebrows climb upward. “Good God, boy! Have you no sense at all? I leave you on your own for a few months and you amass debts like the king himself!”

  “Oh, now, it is not quite that bad . . .”

  “Damned near! And I’ll not have it—you hear? There’s nothing wrong with a bit of gentlemanly play, but this is ridiculous.” He paused, letting his words sink in as he deliberately shuffled through some of the papers again. Finally, he held Luke’s gaze and said, “Very well. I shall pay them—but if you perform another such idiotic stunt, I swear, Luke, I’ll see you rot in debtors’ prison before I do so again. Now—to whom do you owe all this blunt?”

  “Some to Rhoads. A bit to George Ferris. Mostly to Viscount Beelson.”

  “Who?” Thorne fairly shouted the word. “Did you say Beelson?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “You idiot! You confounded idiot. That sorry jackanapes was probably cheating you right and left without your even knowing it!”

  Luke leapt to his feet. “Here now, Thorne. I ain’t such a flat as all that.”

  Thorne gazed at his brother and tried to control his anger which, in truth, was directed more at Beelson and even himself than at Luke. Finally, he softened his tone. “No, I doubt you are. But Beelson is clever—he rarely gets caught in his knavery.”