It was a serious problem and one that she couldn’t find any way out of. Since she clearly could not stop her father from gambling away the money, she would have to discover a way to augment their income. Surely the answer to the solution was to have more money coming in to the house than they had going out. But how to do that? Her mother, having arrived at the same conclusion, had come up with a moneymaking scheme that was completely unacceptable. Would she be able to do any better?
CHAPTER SIX
As Catherine walked in to the drawing room of Lady Georgina Haverford, she conceded that despite who may or may not be present (Deverill, of course) she really did hate routs. They were always, to the supreme satisfaction of one’s hostess, such devastating crushes. As soon as they arrived, she lost sight of Evelyn, who looked stunning in her primrose gown. The air of tragedy she had assumed upon seeing her sister waltzing with Deverill two evenings ago still clung to her, making her beauty seem almost delicate and ethereal. In many ways, Evelyn truly baffled her. She knew her sister was selfish and rarely thought of anyone but herself, and yet the recent events seemed to have wounded her more deeply than Catherine would have expected. Her sister couldn’t be in love with Deverill, she assured herself. No, Evelyn was only miffed to have lost an accomplished flirt to a dowd such as herself. Wouldn’t it be funny if she knew the truth, Catherine thought, well aware that it wouldn’t be funny at all.
Catherine observed the crowd, keeping an eye out for Deverill and not seeing him. Although disappointed, she readily conceded that it was for the best. She needed to put her plan into action and wouldn’t succeed in meeting other suitors if she was in the marquess’s pocket all night. She knew she was in fine looks that evening, for the early ride in the park had put a lovely blush in her cheeks that no amount of examining the dismal financial accounts could dim, and she felt reasonably confident that she could find someone to talk to.
Since Freddy hadn’t come with them this evening, she couldn’t rely on him to introduce her. She would have to muddle through on her own. Surely she knew someone in this room. After all, she had been out for six years and had met scores, if not hundreds, of ladies and gentlemen in that time. To her dismay, she saw faces that were only vaguely familiar but none that she could actually put a name to, and just as she was beginning to despair, she spotted Mr. Pearson.
“Miss Fellingham,” he said, bowing over her hand, “you look charming tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pearson.” She curtsied in return. “I’m extremely pleased to have found you. I’m afraid I’ve lost my sister completely, and Freddy is not in attendance. You don’t mind, do you, if I use you as a social crutch for a little while? I haven’t been to such a crush in a long time, and I am a little overwhelmed.”
Pearson didn’t seem the least put off by her honesty. “By all means, my dear, lean on me. To return candor for candor, I must admit that I myself am a little surprised by the number of people who are here. I would offer to fetch you some punch, but I don’t think I could make it to the table and back.”
“That’s all right. I am not yet parched.” She considered Mr. Pearson for a moment and thought that he would be handsome one day when the spots on his face cleared up and he grew accustomed to his height. Of course, right now he was by far too young and too awkward to be a beau, but Catherine thought he made a very nice friend. “So, tell me, Mr. Pearson, without betraying any confidences, of course, stories of Freddy’s scrapes. I know he must get into a lot of them. Otherwise, they wouldn’t keep sending him down the way they do.”
It was just the right thing to say because Pearson indeed had a fair number of stories to tell and just as he was embarking on a narrative about an incident with the bubbles in the schoolmaster’s apartments, Deverill presented himself with a slight bow.
Catherine, who had kept one eye pealed for him, was surprised by his sudden appearance and realized, after greeting him in return, that Mr. Pearson was not known to him. She made the introduction and discovered that the marquess was acquainted with his brother, Morgan. After confirming that both Pearson and his brother were in good health, Deverill announced that he would like to introduce Catherine to his aunt, who was eager to meet her.
Catherine saw the young man’s disappointment and promised him that she would return presently. He had been a good friend to her in her time of need and she would not desert him now.
As they made their way across the room, Deverill said, “He’s but a puppy, you know.”
Catherine laughed because the observation was so patently obvious there seemed no reason to make it. “Of course he is. He’s my brother’s age. Regardless, he’s a charming companion and it is nice to have someone to talk to amid this crowd.”
“I am here. You can talk to me now,” he said, more autocratic than she had ever heard.
She couldn’t quite tell from the quality of his voice whether he was teasing or not, though it seemed to her that it must be the former, for nobody could be that arrogant. “Perhaps I don’t want to talk with you, Lord Deverill.”
Rather than respond to that blatant lie, he simply smiled with satisfaction and guided her in the direction of his aunt.
“Why does your aunt want to meet me?” she asked.
“She listens to the gossips and has heard my name linked with yours,” he explained, pressing his hand to the small of her back to indicate that she should turn left out of the room. “She wants to look you over and report back to my mother.”
“Your mother, my lord?” she asked cautiously, determined not to get into a fix like this morning, where she showed too much interest in his family. Nevertheless, she was curious, as the idea of his mother knowing her name made her heart trip.
“Of course. She might bury herself in the country during the season, but she does keep abreast of every nine days’ wonder to blow through town.”
“Is that what I am?” she asked in a chilly tone because it hurt to hear herself described so, even though she knew that was exactly what Lady Courtland had meant for her to be. “A nine days’ wonder?”
He examined her carefully, trying, she supposed, to make sense of her suddenly changed demeanor. But “a wonder, certainly,” was all he said in the end.
They found his aunt standing in the hallway, greeting guests who were still arriving in great numbers. Deverill saw that she was in conversation with Lord Haskell, an elderly man, gray of face and hair with a beaklike nose, and waited patiently for the conversation to draw to a close. When it did, he said, “Aunt George, may I present Miss Catherine Fellingham?”
Despite her remarkable height, Catherine felt as though she were being looked down on by this petite woman who was so much grander than she. Deverill’s aunt was a legendary figure on the London scene who had somehow managed to brazen out an adulterous scandal—she being the adulterer—dozens of years before. “It’s an honor to meet you,” she said in her quiet voice. She wasn’t surprised when she was ordered to speak up.
“Miss Fellingham,” the older woman said, “you are familiar to me. Who’s your mother?”
“Eliza Fellingham. She was a Lewis before she married, ma’am.”
Lady Bedford seemed displeased with this answer, as if Catherine were intentionally thwarting her. “No, that’s not right.” She thought for a moment before saying, “Your father, is he Sir Vincent?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have the look of him,” Lady Bedford announced. “I can always tell a person’s relations by looking at her face.”
“An impressive skill, to be sure,” Catherine said, an irrepressible tongue-in-cheek note marring her sincere admiration only slightly.
Noting the impertinent tone, Deverill’s aunt lifted an eyebrow. “You are very like old Felly. He’s quite a rascal.”
Catherine thought of the man who occasionally joined the family for meals and who wanted only a peaceful house and exclusion from all Cheltenham tragedies enacted there, including the ones he himself authored with his antics.
She didn’t doubt old Felly got into quite a lot of mischief when free of the obligations of family. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” she said stiffly.
“Aunt,” said Deverill, sensing Catherine’s discomfort, “we should let you return to your guests.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Pray hold off on your escape until I’m done with my interview.” Her sharp gaze examined Catherine. “What’s this about your dangling after my nephew?”
Taken aback by the unexpectedly direct question, she found her earlier boldness deserted her and she kept her mouth closed for want of something to say. Her instinct was to deny the charge, but she knew the more one denied a rumor, the more everyone believed it. The clever thing to do would be to dismiss it with a joke, but she could think of no glib rejoinders.
Fortunately, Deverill replied before her silence became marked. “Whoever is feeding you your daily dose of gossip has left you sadly misinformed, Aunt. Miss Fellingham isn’t dangling after me, much to my regret. Indeed, to arrange this meeting I had to drag her away from the side of another suitor. And, what’s more, as soon as we leave you here, she’s promised to return to him,” he said, sounding more disappointed than necessary.
“More fool she,” assured his aunt before returning her attention to arriving guests.
“I am sorry to have subjected you to that,” he apologized as they negotiated their way through the stifling crowd. “I wish I could say that she means well, but I’m afraid it would be nothing but an outright lie. My aunt chooses to amuse only herself.”
“It must run in the family,” she murmured, thinking about his pact with Lady Courtland and how he had no true concern for her feelings.
Although he looked at her oddly, he said nothing, so she was unable to judge whether he heard her comment or not. She glanced around the room in order to locate Pearson and encountered the silky blond curls of her sister instead. “Tell me, Deverill, who is the gentleman talking with my sister Evelyn. I have never seen him before.”
Deverill examined the tall, thin man with the wiry black hair before responding, “That is Mr. Oscar Finchly.” He made a moue of disgust. “I would advise my sister to give him his congé if I were you. He’s a rather unsavory character.”
She had drawn a similar conclusion simply by looking at him, for he had a slippery appearance and his eyes beheld her sister with a disconcertingly avaricious gaze. She did not, however, want to judge anyone unfairly. Having been the victim of just such an injustice only days ago, she knew how hurtful that could be. “How so?”
Deverill was disinclined to go into details and merely said that Finchly played cards by a different set of rules.
“You mean he cheats?” asked Catherine, not content to be so discreet.
He shook his head. “Nobody has ever been able to prove anything. I will say only that there are other sins that have been laid at his door and beg you to leave it at that. Ah, there’s Pearson now chatting with my cousin Constantine. Have you made his acquaintance? He’s a very good chap, if a bit of a fop. ”
Catherine thought that by calling his cousin “a bit of a fop,” Deverill was understating the case by several degrees. Dressed in an elaborately decorated pink topcoat, the man gave new meaning to “pink of the ton,” which he was—and then some. But he was easy to talk to despite collar points so well starched that he could barely move his head, and Catherine found him delightful company. When Deverill moved on to mingle with his aunt’s guests, she barely missed him.
At the end of the evening, Catherine, who had been introduced to several interesting prospects, was in such a good mood that she tried to mend fences with Evelyn.
“I think that was a lovely party,” she began. “Did you have a good time, Evelyn?”
“I had a fine time, Catherine,” Evelyn said, sounding bored and refusing to look at her sister. “I didn’t talk to Deverill, of course, but I saw that you talked to him enough for the both of us.”
“And I saw that you had a court of admirers around you.” Catherine forged onward despite this unencouraging start.
Evelyn didn’t answer.
“And Mr. Finchly…”
“What about Mr. Finchly?” her sister demanded when she trailed off.
Since it was clear to her that no fences were to be mended that night, she said, “He’s not to Deverill’s taste. According to him, Mr. Finchly is a scoundrel.”
“In light of recent events, I don’t put any stock in Lord Deverill’s tastes,” Evelyn assured her. ”And I don’t need him to tell me which of my suitors are proper.”
“You’re right,” Catherine agreed. “However, I can’t help wondering if—”
“Mr. Finchly?” muttered their mother, her eyes still shut. “Where have I heard that name? I know, Evelyn has complained about a horrid Mr. Finchly.” Her mother’s eyes opened enquiringly. “Is it the same one? You know, there was a Finchly who Arabella and I helped. A tall man with a thin face who lived in Upper Seymour Street, number 28, I believe. It must also be the same gentleman, for it would be absurd for there to be so many Mr. Finchlys running around London.”
“Yes, that’s the very one,” said Evelyn since her mother had revealed her true feelings on the subject. “And I don’t need Deverill to tell me who’s suitable. I can decide for myself who is to my liking.”
“Of course,” Catherine said calmly, unsurprised by her sister’s prickly response. “I have every faith in your powers of judgment. I was only trying to help, you see.”
“If you really want to help,” said her sister, falling into a pout again, “you can go back into your shell. Don’t think I don’t know about the shopping trip you took with Mama yesterday, the one I wasn’t invited to share. Because I did know about it and I didn’t want to go.” She dissolved into tears again. “I didn’t want to go at all.”
Showing what Catherine thought was a surprising amount of insight, Lady Fellingham said, “I’m sorry, Evelyn. You were still abed, recovering from the ball the night before, and I didn’t want to disturb you. I know how you need your beauty sleep because I was very much the same when I was your age. After a long night out, my sister Louise would be up running around the house doing assorted duties that I never quite understood, but I knew that I needed to sleep. If I didn’t, I would have hideously ugly black circles under my eyes and there was no way to get rid of them, despite my abigail’s insistence that placing cucumbers under the eyes would do just the trick. Louise didn’t have that problem and if she did, it wouldn’t have mattered because she wasn’t the beauty of the family. Things are different when you are truly beautiful.”
Having grown up in one such household where beauty had indeed elevated one daughter over the other, Catherine could attest that things were different when one was beautiful. Thank goodness Evelyn would be long since married when the time arrived to present Melissa, a passably pretty girl, of course, but not a diamond of the first water like Evelyn. Catherine felt very protective of her youngest sister and hoped that she had an easier time of it than she.
“I know, Mama,” said Evelyn, thoroughly corrupted by a lifetime of such reasoning, “that’s why I can’t understand why Deverill is interested in Catherine over me.”
“Because sometimes beauty isn’t everything,” her mother explained, almost sadly, it seemed to Catherine. “And in those cases there is nothing you can do, my dear, except put on a brave face and move on to the next Lord Deverill. There is always another, more handsome peer waiting in the wings.”
Catherine closed her eyes and tried to sleep. The conversation had taken a ridiculous turn, and she didn’t want to hear any more of it if she could help it. She’d always known how beautiful her mother had been when she was young—she had seen the miniature that Lady Fellingham always carried with her—but she had never quite understood what aging meant to a woman whose self-confidence was based entirely on something that would inevitably fade over time. Here in the carriage she had been given a glimpse, and it made her worry for Eve
lyn’s future. For the first time in her life, Catherine allowed that it might be a far better thing to have countenance than beauty. She dozed with a smile on her face.
When Julian Haverford, Marquess of Deverill, showed up at her door a few days later to take her children to the British Museum, Lady Eliza Fellingham could have been knocked down with a feather, her shock was so great.
“The British Museum?” she said, watching as Caruthers took his hat and coat from him. “The British Museum?”
“Make no mistake,” he said, “there is only one British Museum.”
Lady Fellingham laughed distractedly. “Of course. There’s only one. How silly of me. And how rude. Catherine,” she said, not noticing that her daughter was fighting to hold in a fit of giggles, “don’t just stand there staring, take Deverill into the drawing room. Caruthers? Caruthers? Where is that— Oh, there you are. We will have tea in the drawing room. Come, my dear Deverill, and let us talk about the…uh, British Museum.”
Catherine entered the room and closed the door behind her. Her mother and Deverill were already seated. She sat down across from Deverill and studiously evaded his gaze lest she break out into delighted laughter.
“What are you going to see at the museum?” her mother asked, just as the servant brought in the tea. “Caruthers, could you please tell Melissa that she is wanted in the drawing room. Do make sure her hair looks all right before she comes down.”
Caruthers’s lip curled a little at the thought of this very unbutlerlike duty, but he acquiesced with a nod. When he was gone, Lady Fellingham turned to Deverill for confirmation. “You did say Melissa, did you not, my lord? Catherine, be a dear and pour Lord Deverill some tea.”
“I did indeed, madam,” he assured her.
“And you are quite sure you didn’t mean Evelyn?” she asked, somewhat disconcerted by the unexpected situation.
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