The Ardent Lady Amelia

by Laura Matthews

  “Yes,” she said, stroking the horse’s neck fondly, “I’m afraid it’s time to retire her. I’ve mentioned it to Peter, but he’s been too busy to take me along to Tattersall’s. Poor Cleo deserves to spend the rest of her days in a pasture. London makes her nervous nowadays.”

  “On Monday I saw a fine bay mare at Tattersall’s. One of Hampnett’s, I believe. They say he’s rolled himself up again and is selling his whole stable. I’d be happy to look into it for you, if you’d allow me.”

  “That’s kind of you,” she replied, uncertain. “Perhaps if you were to mention the mare to Peter…”

  “Of course.”

  They had reached the earl’s house and Verwood quickly dismounted to offer his assistance to Lady Amelia. She swung one knee free of the hook and the other foot free of its stirrup, but hesitated when he held his hands out to her. His smile became gently quizzical and she placed her hands in his before sliding to the ground. For a moment they stood gazing into each other’s eyes. Then he pressed her fingers and released them, saying, “I shall call soon, if I may.”

  Amelia caught her lip uneasily between her teeth before shrugging slightly. “If you wish,” she said softly. “Good morning, Lord Verwood.” Without waiting for a response, she grabbed the skirts of her habit in both hands and hurried up the stairs.

  Chapter 8

  Trudy was standing in the large entry hall when Amelia came down that afternoon to meet Robert for their excursion to St. Giles Rookery. One of Trudy’s favorite costumes was a high-waisted gold-and-white-striped day dress that seemed to balloon out from her on all sides. She was observing herself complacently in the gilded glass over an ornate table on which rested the silver tray for visiting cards.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, eyeing Amelia’s pelisse in the mirror.

  “I’m off with Robert to see the child who was here last night. His mother’s in hospital and I want to make sure the children are well-cared-for and lack nothing. I won’t be long.”

  “Really, my dear, you can’t go into some appalling area of town, even with Robert. Send him to assess the situation.”

  Amelia smiled placidly. “I assure you I’ll be perfectly safe with Robert, Aunt Trudy. No one ever so much as looks at me askance when I’m with him.”

  Trudy gripped one billowing panel of her dress and smoothed it down. “I’m sure Robert can accomplish any errand on his own, dear. You really can’t expose yourself to the kind of squalor there’s bound to be where that child lives.”

  “It’s already arranged.”

  “It can be unarranged,” Trudy informed her, frowning at Amelia’s reflection.

  There were not many occasions on which the two strong-willed women clashed, but Amelia could see that this was going to be one of them. She was about to put forth arguments in her behalf when the knocker sounded.

  Bighton came unhurriedly through the green baize door at the end of the hall, bowed slightly to the two women who faced each other obstinately, and progressed to the front door, where he admitted none other than Lord Verwood.

  “Ah, a guest,” Trudy murmured. “You really can’t leave with a guest just come.”

  “He’s come to see Peter.” Amelia felt certain this wasn’t really the case.

  “No, indeed. He’s come to see you. Peter is out.”

  “But he doesn’t know Peter is out,” Amelia suggested.

  Trudy glared at her. “He brought you home from the park this morning. I saw him from the breakfast parlor. In any case, we must surely entertain him.”

  “You may entertain him,” Amelia muttered. “I have other matters to attend to.” But she smiled pleasantly as Verwood advanced toward them, saying, “I’m afraid you’ve missed my brother, sir, and I was just leaving, but my aunt would relish some company.”

  Not willing to be undercut in this way, Trudy shook her head vigorously. “No, no, I cannot allow it,” she said, turning to the viscount with an imploring expression. “You must convince her, Lord Verwood. It would be folly for her to venture into such a neighborhood with Robert.”

  “St. Giles Rookery?” he asked immediately, to Amelia’s surprise.

  Trudy shuddered and looked questioningly at her niece.

  “Yes, St. Giles Rookery,” Amelia admitted as she casually buttoned her pelisse. “There’s no need for concern. The undernourished poor are no match for Robert, I promise you.

  Since at this moment Robert appeared in the hall, resplendent in his livery, no one actually quibbled with this statement. He was certainly a strapping young fellow. His shoulders were as broad as a prizefighter’s and his height surpassed Verwood’s by a good four inches. Amelia thought he looked a great deal more civilized as well, this blond giant. Verwood’s wild black curls and his fierce black eyes gave him the look of a pirate or a highwayman, hardly what one expected in the drawing room.

  He was observing her now, the thick brows lowered thoughtfully over his eyes, and a rather odd twist to his lips. Amelia realized after a moment that this latter was his attempt at a polite smile. She had to bite her lip not to burst out laughing, though she sobered quickly enough when he said, “I would be willing to accompany Lady Amelia and Robert to the Rookery, Miss Harting, if it would set your mind at ease.”

  “Would you?” Trudy gushed over with gratitude. “How very kind of you, Lord Verwood! I wouldn’t have a moment’s rest the whole time she was gone. But you can see how determined she is! There’s no stopping her once she has her mind made up.”

  “Is that so?” he asked, giving Amelia an amused look which she assumed was meant to quell any objections she might have.

  And she had objections. Any number of them. Not the least of which was that she felt a trifle nervous in his presence. She had noticed it that morning, when he was making a particular effort to be pleasant to her. It was an unusual reaction for her to succumb to. Having enjoyed the benefits of society for some years now, there were few occasions on which she felt inadequate or uncomfortable, so it was difficult to explain the fluttery feeling she had in her stomach, or the way her hands were wont to tremble just because he was staring at her.

  What could he do, after all? Scold her? Surely that wouldn’t be so awful. Even his trick of turning the tables on her, of making her aware that he was laughing at her, couldn’t really do her any harm. Who cared if he laughed at her? It was a unique experience, to be sure, but he never did it in such a way that anyone else knew, so there was no need to worry. Her daydreams from the early morning came back to her, and the unbidden thoughts she’d had in Hyde Park before he joined her. It was ludicrous to think she was forming some sort of attachment to him, and yet…

  Better under the circumstances to accept his coming with them. Otherwise Trudy might positively forbid her to go, and Amelia was intent on seeing the Carson children. So she gave in with as good grace as she could manage, saying, “I’m sure it’s unnecessary, but if you wish to accompany us, of course you’re welcome.”

  She said good-bye to Trudy, tucked a strand of honey-colored hair under her bonnet, picked up her basket of food from the kitchen, and walked to the front door. Robert held it open for her, and for Verwood, of course, following them down the steps to where the carriage stood waiting. It was a maroon barouche with a crest on the door, the hood down owing to the fine weather. Verwood took one look at the open carriage and said, “The hood will have to go up.”

  Amelia frowned at him. “Why?”

  “Because of the area in which we’ll he travelling, of course. We’d probably do better to take a hackney.”

  The carriage would be stuffy with the hood up on such a day, and Amelia considered the possibility of remanding his order. But Robert had already sprung to do his bidding. It didn’t help Amelia’s mood any that Robert looked relieved about Verwood’s advent, either. She allowed the footman to assist her into the carriage and reluctantly made room for Verwood on the seat beside her. Robert sprang up on the box with the coachman; she could see him through t
he windscreen talking with the older man.

  “Blue becomes you.”

  Startled, Amelia switched her gaze to Verwood. If it had been conceivable that anyone but he had made the comment, she would certainly have believed it, since he sat rigid beside her, not even meeting her gaze. Nor was he observing her blue silk pelisse, but the tassels on his Hessians, which swayed with the movement of the carriage.

  “Thank you,” she said coolly.

  “It might have been better if you’d dressed a little less elegantly to go into St. Giles.”

  “I don’t own anything less ‘elegant’ than this.”

  He nodded his head in noncommittal acknowledgment of the likelihood of this statement and moved his eyes to the window, where Brook Street drifted past. “Have you been to visit the Carsons before?”

  “No, I’ve dealt only through Reverend Symons.”

  “You may be disturbed by their living conditions.”

  She lifted her shoulders slightly. “Their situation has been described to me. I’m not likely to suffer from a fit of vapours, if that’s what you imagine.”

  Verwood suddenly turned the full impact of his black eyes on her. He had a most unnerving habit of not blinking very often, and Amelia, as though to make up for this oversight, blinked several times in rapid succession. “I’ve seen poverty before, Lord Verwood,” she said.

  “In the country?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not the same. People in cities... Well, just be prepared for something of a shock.”

  There was a note of real concern in his voice and Amelia felt the irritation that had risen in her abate. Suddenly she wanted to tell him about Tommy and his family, though the night before she had tried so hard to give him as little information as possible. But she was afraid he’d think she was trying to make herself out as a Lady Bountiful, that she was asking for his approval rather than his advice, and she remained mute. He wasn’t likely to know more about what to do with a family like the Carsons than she was, after all.

  They had left behind the better area of London now and were driving farther and farther into a scene of raggedly dressed children, strong odors of decay, and worse. The stately homes of the West End had given way to ramshackle buildings and edifices that could be described as nothing but hovels. Their progress was slow, kept to a walking pace by the straggling animals, the bedraggled carts, and the press of wretched humanity. Amelia saw a blind beggar with a one-legged child and dug for her reticule.

  “No,” Verwood insisted, staying her hand with a firm grip. “If you give alms to one of them, we’ll be so inundated we won’t make it to our destination. The whole street full of people will crowd around the carriage begging for money, and such a group can turn ugly.”

  “But they’re so pathetic!” she exclaimed, slipping her hand from his hold but making no attempt to get at the coins in her reticule. “Could we give them something on our return?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Amelia felt he only said it to placate her. “You think I’d forget, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think you’ll forget, but you can’t help all of them, Lady Amelia. The way you’ve been doing it, through the reverend, is the best way to handle charity. There are any number of unscrupulous villains out there begging, men who would blind a baby or maim a child just to provide a ghastly spectacle for the likes of you. Encouraging that kind of crime doesn’t alleviate the real suffering that goes on.”

  Amelia could feel the blood drain from her face. “Surely no one would do such a cruel thing! You’re horridly cynical, Lord Verwood.”

  “You’re understandably naive, Lady Amelia,” he retorted. “People who have to fight for every crumb of bread haven’t your sensibility or your refined sense of what is acceptable behavior. And there are wretched human beings among the poor just as there are among the rich.”

  Her stomach churned with nausea and she turned her head away from him. Though she felt sure he wasn’t lying, she was upset with him for so bluntly forcing the ugly knowledge on her. Outside of the slowly moving vehicle she now perceived the malevolent or sullen gazes directed to her luxurious carriage and through the glass to her elaborately costumed self. The dirt, the squalor, the suffering humanity— all seemed suddenly frightening to her. Her small efforts to relieve a few families were hopelessly inadequate, the chances of turning the tide of poverty surely nonexistent. Amelia wished fervently that she’d never ventured forth from the house in Grosvenor Square.

  St. Giles Rookery was notorious for its distasteful conditions and its criminal activity. The Carsons lived there, in a dismal basement, because the lodging cost so little. When the carriage halted in a dark alley where the smell of rotting garbage assailed her nostrils, Amelia bit her lip and straightened her shoulders. Not for the world would she show Lord Verwood how overset she was by his words and her own observations.

  A motley group of youngsters straggled after the carriage and hooted as the viscount assisted her to the muddy street. There was no evidence of the beautiful spring day she’d left behind in the West End. No sun penetrated to warm the scantily clothed children or dry the ooze at her feet.

  There was a flurry of movement behind her, accompanied by more raucous cries, and she felt the reticule she had firmly gripped in her hand torn abruptly from her fingers. Before an exclamation could escape her lips, of either pain or surprise, Verwood had spun and collared a minute urchin who now had her net purse clasped tightly under his arm. The boy was sprinting past, and his rag of a shirt ripped under Verwood’s grasp, leaving the viscount with only a piece of cloth in his hands.

  It seemed to Amelia that the child would get away then, and she almost wished that he would. There wasn’t all that much money in her reticule. Was this the sort of thing Tommy Carson had done before Reverend Symons had urged his plight on her? Amelia’s hands stung from the ripping of the purse out of her grasp, but she had already seen enough ugliness for one day. In horrified fascination she watched Verwood bound forward so automatically that he doubtless had forgotten his injured knee.

  The child was small and wiry and fast, but his pursuer had a tremendously long stride. Before they reached the corner, Verwood had extended one of the gleaming Hessians, its tassel swinging wildly, and brought the child down with a thump. Amelia’s reticule skittered from under his arm and into a puddle, where Verwood immediately rescued it, since the horde of boys was rapidly descending on them.

  Robert managed to put himself and his gigantic stance between the two groups, frowning menacingly at the tattered ranks. Not even for one of their own were they willing to test the footman’s size and temper. In a moment they had scattered, leaving only the footman, the viscount, and the cringing urchin.

  Verwood reached down and drew the boy to his feet, keeping a firm hold on one arm when the youngster made an attempt to flee. Amelia had walked a little ways toward them, but he stopped her progress with a scowl. There was a brief discussion between Verwood and Robert, none of which Amelia could overhear, and then Robert took hold of the boy’s arm and led him away. Amelia wanted to protest, but the implacable expression on Verwood’s face deterred her. About this time she no longer even wished for the comforts of Grosvenor Square; she would have settled for sitting down in the middle of the muddy road and weeping.

  Instead she stood poker-straight, trying to summon up the courage to accept her disgustingly dirty reticule from the viscount. He didn’t offer it to her, however; but slipped it somewhere inside his blue superfine coat and led her to the Carson’s door. There was no knocker, of course, and he rapped on the unpainted wooden panel with his knuckles, since he carried no cane, despite the bad leg.

  A thin woman with spectacles and an astonishingly long nose answered the door to them. Clustered behind her were all four of the Carson children, exhibiting various degrees of anxiety and hope. Tommy came forward to introduce Amelia to Mrs. Didling, who dropped a startled curtsy and looked unsure as to whether t
o invite them into the dilapidated building.

  “I’ve just come to see if you need anything for the children, and to bring you a basket of food,” Amelia said kindly. “Is there any further word of Mrs. Carson?”

  “Doctor says she be better,” the woman replied, stepping back so Amelia and Verwood could come into the one low-ceilinged room. There were no decent chairs to sit on, but Mrs. Didling drew up a stool, wiped it with a decently clean cloth, and offered it to Amelia, who took it more out of thoughtfulness than any real desire to sit down. “‘Twas something she ate, he thinks. Perhaps a bit of meat gone bad that poisoned her system.”

  “Butcher gives us bad meat sometimes,” Tommy explained. “Charges just the same for it. We always have a bit of meat on Sunday, if there’s the money.”

  And not a day goes by when I don’t have all the meat I could wish, Amelia thought helplessly, her eyes straying to Verwood’s face. She could read nothing there. He stood at his ease, allowing the youngest child to play with the muddied tassels on his Hessians. When the baby lifted his arms to be picked up, Verwood stooped down and lifted him with one arm.

  Though she had intended to visit with the children, get to know them, she found now that she only wanted to leave. She turned back to Mrs. Didling. “Have you enough money to see that they’re well taken care of for a few days, ma’am?”

  “Oh, yes. The man Robert left enough for a week. You’re not to worry, milady. We’ll get along just fine.” She appeared a little nervous in Amelia’s presence, eyeing her gown with only partially disguised awe. Amelia looked about the room, where there were simple pallets on the floor and an open hearth for cooking. The smoke from many fires had blackened the open beams overhead, but the walls had been washed down sometime recently. All was ragged, but clean, and Amelia rose to leave. “You have only to send word if you need something, Mrs. Didling.”

  “Thank you, milady.”

  Verwood transferred the bouncing child to the woman’s arms and followed Amelia to the door. Her one last look around the room nearly overcame her, at the discrepancy between the way the Carsons lived and the way she did. Why, even the poorest of the cottagers at Margrave lived a great deal more comfortably.