Lord Rathbone's Flirt

by Gayle Buck

  Astonishment held her still, but only for a moment. Then all of the despair and anger within welled up with such force that she felt suffocated. He dared—dared!—to mouth the lie. With all the strength at her command, she swung her hand. Her palm cracked against his face, leaving behind a reddened im­print.

  Lord Rathbone stood as though turned to stone.

  Verity did not wait for him to regain his self-possession. She brushed past him and opened the door. She swiftly crossed the hall to the staircase. She did not hesitate nor look back, but ran up the stairs.

  Lord Rathbone stood where she had left him, shocked and sick. He had not even turned his head upon her exit. Now he turned slowly to the open door, about to leave the sitting room, when a stir of movement came to his ears. He swung around to face the shadowed room, alarmed that there should have been any witness to the encounter. He would not have any further mischief spread that would hurt Miss Worth.

  “Who’s there?” he called sharply, taking a step forward.

  A portly figure rose and came round the end of the tall set­tle. Lord Rathbone pulled himself up sharply as he recognized his uncle by marriage. “Mr. Pettiforth!”

  Mr. Pettiforth gravely regarded the viscount for a long, un­comfortable moment. He said finally, “Perhaps you would be so good as to close the door, my lord.”

  Lord Rathbone did as he was requested, feeling that he had somehow strayed into an unending nightmare that was turning darker and deeper with each passing moment.

  He squared his shoulders as he turned back around to face the gentleman. His voice grating, he said, “You have over­heard what passed between myself and Miss Worth.”

  Mr. Pettiforth nodded. “Aye. I had dozed off, you see, and by the time I had my wits about me again, I was in no mind to declare myself. The conversation that just took place explained much that has puzzled me of late. I wondered at the sly glances and the innuendos that were directed at Miss Worth, but she never confided in me. I had hoped that she would; now I regret that I did not press the matter.”

  Lord Rathbone felt his hands clench into hard fists. He said tightly, “I have behaved badly, sir. I have trespassed upon your hospitality and I have done a grave disservice to a member of your household. I hold myself solely responsible.”

  “Well said, my lord. It is a pity that pretty words cannot mend what has been so carelessly trampled. Slander is an in­sidious thing, my lord. Once established, it is difficult to eradi­cate,” said Mr. Pettiforth.

  “I would have done my best to mend the damage, but she would not grant me the right,” said Lord Rathbone in a low voice. “As my wife, she would have had the protection of my name.”

  “But what else would she have, my lord?”

  At the viscount’s startled comprehension, Mr. Pettiforth slowly shook his head. “I think that under the circumstances this visit would best be terminated at once.”

  Lord Rathbone swallowed. He had never suffered such hu­miliation on top of humiliation. He bowed, maintaining his ex­pressionless composure with difficulty. “Of course. I shall make arrangements for my immediate departure at first light.”

  He turned to go and had dropped his hand to the doorknob when Mr. Pettiforth’s voice stopped him.

  “Miss Worth is a distant relation of mine. She is of good family. ‘Tis a pity that you chose to trifle with one of her qual­ity. Nephew you may be, Rathbone, but I shall not welcome you again to my home. I’ll not have a libertine under my roof.”

  Without looking around, his pride and sense of honor com­pletely stripped from him, Lord Rathbone left the sitting room.

  Mr. Pettiforth glanced around the empty room and sighed. It had not been easy to order the viscount out of the house. But he had done so and he did not regret it. The unpleasant neces­sity was done.

  He did not know what could be done for Miss Worth. Hefelt wholly to blame for the path that matters had taken for her under his roof. Her father had been a cherished friend and, in the beginning, he had been prepared to accept Miss Worth un­conditionally on that account. But now he had come to trea­sure her as much for herself. It pained him that he had not had either the foresight or the fortitude to do something about the ugly tide that he had perceived to be gathering.

  Mr. Pettiforth well knew that there was more unpleasantness to weather. It would be wonderful indeed if his spouse did not have something to say to him. She had never truly liked hav­ing Miss Worth brought into the house. He had known that, but he had hoped that she would eventually become recon­ciled. He had been encouraged that was in a fair way to hap­pening, as Miss Worth had proved herself to be as diplomatic with Mrs. Pettiforth as she had been effective with his daugh­ter.

  Now that there had been talk coupling Miss Worth’s name with that of the viscount, however, he doubted very much that Mrs. Pettiforth’s grudging respect for Miss Worth would sur­vive. She would not hold her tongue upon the matter, either. As for his daughter, Cecily, he was fairly certain that the girl would be enraged to hear that the gentleman whom she had considered hers to conquer had had his sights set on another lady.

  Mr. Pettiforth knew himself for a man who disliked con­frontation and contention. It was a failing in him, he saw now, that had eroded his authority in his own home. Rather than en­dure constant bickerings over what he had perceived as an ill-judged coddling of his eldest daughter, he had chosen to bite back all objections and allow Mrs. Pettiforth a free hand in the girl’s upbringing. Only once had he stood firm and that had been in bringing Miss Worth into the household.

  It had been a desperate measure, borne out of his pained awareness of his daughter’s lack of character and the ruinous road that she was so firmly set upon. As much as he detested his daughter’s spoiled ways and her tantrums, he had neverthe­less loved her throughout.

  His wish had been that Miss Worth’s example and influence would make a difference in Cecily, but he had felt little actual hope. His surprise had been sharp when he saw that his daugh­ter could actually be handled, even under the limitations that Mrs. Pettiforth’s prerogatives had dictated.

  Now, as he regretfully thought over all that had gone before, he wondered idly whether his daughter under different circum­stances might yet be salvageable.

  His mild visage became unexpectedly strengthened by the grim light of determination that entered his eyes. Yes, if he had learned nothing else through this unpleasant experience, it was that he must take an active role in his eldest daughter’s life.

  Mrs. Pettiforth would strenuously object to having her un­challenged authority curtailed. That was to be expected. He disliked very much the thought of the scene that would follow.

  Nonetheless, he would do his best to rectify the matter. The sooner it was accomplished and his position understood, the sooner he would be comfortable again.

  He would start the campaign to claim back his prerogatives as head of the household in the morning.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  Verity longed for nothing more than to be able to throw herself across her bed and give in to a hearty bout of tears. But she was not allowed that indulgence. The maid who did up her fire had earlier offered to help her out of her finery and Verity had accepted with gratitude. The servantwoman had waited up to undress her and Verity felt it would be capricious to send the woman off. She had no choice but to submit to the maid’s ministrations. Verity choked back her emotions, holding her­self under the strictest control, and though she spoke with less than her usual warmth, she did not betray herself in front of the maid.

  She was returning the maid’s goodnight when there was a knock on the door. The maid opened the door and Mrs. Arnold came into the bedroom. “Verity, I am sorry to bother you at such a late hour. I hope that I may sit with you a few min­utes?”

  Verity sighed. She should have expected this visit, for she had known how reluctant Mrs. Arnold had been to leave her to a private conference with Lord Rathbone. She signaled the maid to leave them and then turn
ed to her friend. “It was not necessary to come to me, Betsy. I am perfectly all right, as you can see.”

  “No, you are not,” said Mrs. Arnold roundly. She put her arm about Verity and led her to the settee in front of the fire. “Why, your hands are like ice! I will not pry, dear one, but I am here if you wish to confide in me.”

  Verity sank down on the settee, Mrs. Arnold sitting down beside her. Verity shook her head, staring down at her hands in her lap. “Oh, Betsy. There is not much to tell, truly there is not. Lord Rathbone wished only to apologize.”

  There was a short silence in which Verity did not dare to look up, for fear that her friend would see the tears that stung her eyes. At last, Mrs. Arnold said in a carefully controlled voice, “And so he should have. Verity, my dear.”

  There was such tender sympathy in Mrs. Arnold’s voice that Verity’s tears slipped free. She buried her face in her hands and wept, while Mrs. Arnold held her in her arms and mur­mured soothing words.

  It was several minutes before Verity regained control of her­self. She straightened, avoiding her friend’s anxious gaze, and dashed her hand across her eyes. “I am sorry, Betsy.”

  Mrs. Arnold produced a handkerchief so that Verity could dry her face. “Nonsense, dearest. A good cry was just the thing you needed. Now, what is to be done?”

  Verity shook her head. She gave a feeble tickle of laughter. “I have no notion. I fear that I am quite sunk beyond reproach. Certainly whatever influence I once exerted over Miss Pettiforth is blasted. The girl is of such a jealous nature that the gossip shall set her into a foaming rage and she will set her face against me at every turn. Even beside that, my credit in this neighborhood is beyond repair, so either way my position here cannot now be one of long duration.” Her voice thick­ened. “Nor would I wish it to be. I do not want to endure this injustice, Betsy!”

  “Very proper sentiments,” approved Mrs. Arnold. “Shall you return to Crofthouse, then?”

  Verity stared at her companion in horror and dismay. “Why, I cannot. As I told you before, we shut up the house until Charles should return to England, for things were in such a state after Papa died that we could not maintain ourselves. Betsy, I—I am not certain what I shall do.”

  “Then you shall come home with me,” said Mrs. Arnold firmly. “No, listen to me for a moment, I pray you. You are quite correct in your assessment of your reputation. You have been ruined, at least in the eyes of most in this neighborhood. However, most of these personages are provincials. They have little influence and very likely few acquaintances in London circles, whereas I have a superfluity of both.”

  Mrs. Arnold took Verity’s hands in hers, grasping them with the intensity of her feelings. “Verity, you mustn’t flee and hide away in some out-of-the-way hole. I want you to hold your head high. I want you to stare down anyone who should dare question your integrity. I promise you, I shall be right there be­side you. With my support and influence, any whispers that might follow us to London shall simply wither away.”

  “And what of Lord Rathbone? What shall I say when I meet his lordship?” asked Verity, closing her eyes despairingly.

  “You shall give him a polite nod. You shall comment on the pleasant weather or... or the latest offering at the theater,” said Mrs. Arnold fiercely. “You shall not wear your heart on your sleeve!”

  Verity’s eyes flew open. Startled, she stared at her friend. “How did you know?” she whispered.

  Mrs. Arnold’s eyes held an expression that was older than her years. “My dear. You are not the first woman to ever love a gentleman who is unworthy of you.”

  “Betsy, you?”

  Mrs. Arnold shook her head. A smile teased at her lips and the sad expression vanished as though it had never been. “Per­haps there was a time. But not now. Now we are speaking of you. Verity, will you come? You must see that it would be for the best. You cannot go back to any of your family with Crofthouse closed and especially with this pall hanging over your head.”

  “No, no, I cannot,” agreed Verity, as she thought how diffi­cult it would be to hide away the hurt she felt from those who loved her best. “Very well, Betsy. I shall go to London with you. I only trust that neither of us shall regret it.”

  “I promise you that I shan’t. And I mean to see that you do not,” said Mrs. Arnold, rising from the settee. “Now you must go to bed and rest. I shall inform Mrs. Pettiforth in the morning that Herbert and I must take leave of her at last. I shall tell her, also, that I have invited you to return to London with me for an extended visit. I shall leave to you how you shall man­age your own affairs, of course.”

  Verity rose and embraced her friend quickly. “Thank you, Betsy ... for everything. I do not know what I would have done without you tonight, dearest of friends.”

  Mrs. Arnold smiled and crossed to the bedroom door. But before she quite reached it, it flew open with a crash. Mrs. Arnold was thrust back by a flying fury. She stumbled and fell to the floor, crying out more in surprise than from injury.

  “Betsy!” Verity rushed forward, her hand outstretched, quick concern coming into her face.

  Cecily Pettiforth had rushed into the bedroom, uncaring that she had knocked Mrs. Arnold aside. Her eyes glittered with rage. High spots of color stained her cheeks and her nose and mouth were pinched. When her darting eyes lighted on Verity, her bosom heaved. “You! You—you hussy! I shall scratch your eyes out this instant!”

  With astonishment, Verity fell back as the girl flew at her. “Miss Pettiforth! Cecily!” She caught the girl’s wrists as the girl’s fingers raked at her eyes. “Cecily, pray get control of yourself!”

  Mrs. Pettiforth had followed shortly on her daughter’s heels and now added her pleas to Verity’s, but to no avail. Miss Pet­tiforth was in the throes of the most furious passion of her life and no ordinary power could have turned her from her course. Her shrieks were heard throughout the wing and an audience quickly formed at the open door.

  Miss Tibbs did not hesitate in the doorway, but marched across the bedroom. Taking hold of Miss Pettiforth’s shoulder, she spun her around and smartly smacked the girl across the cheek. Miss Pettiforth’s furious tirade was stopped in mid­stream as she stared in shock at her former governess.

  “That will be enough of that, Cecily. We will have no more of your nonsense this night, if you please,” said Miss Tibbs quellingly.

  “Miss Tibbs!” exclaimed Mrs. Pettiforth, shocked. Miss Pettiforth dissolved into racking sobs and at once turned into her mother’s protective arms. “There, there, dearest one. Mama is here.”

  Miss Tibbs looked at an obviously badly shaken Verity. “Are you quite all right, Miss Worth?”

  Verity straightened, saying uncertainly, “I believe so. But Mrs. Arnold! I must see to her!”

  However, Mrs. Arnold was already back on her feet. Some of the other ladies who had stood about the doorway had come forward to help her up, all the while questioning her on what had happened. Most had obviously just returned to the house, their ball gowns sadly crushed. Some had already put off their finery and were attired in dressing gowns. The contrast spoke volumes of the keen interest generated by Miss Pettiforth’s hysterical screams.

  As Verity joined them, Mrs. Arnold was repeating again what she had already said. “I was wishing Miss Worth good night. She had been good enough to see me back here when I was taken with the headache. Miss Pettiforth attacked me and then she flew after Miss Worth, who had remonstrated with her and tried to help me to my feet.”

  Several of the ladies gasped and all shook their heads. “How extraordinary! The girl must be touched in her upper works,” said one, and others nodded.

  “Oh no, no!” exclaimed Verity. “Of course, she is not. Miss Pettiforth is high-strung certainly, but—”

  “It is good of you to defend her, Miss Worth. But I for one have heard and seen enough tonight to quite decide me that the girl wants schooling,” pronounced an older dame. A full sleep­ing cap covered her head and the laces
that trimmed it quiv­ered with the lady’s indignation. “Why, my dear Miss Worth, it was that baggage that precipitated the most monstrous tale concerning you this very evening.”

  “I do not think the girl was the first to set it about,” objected one lady judiciously. “Though I will say this, once she had hold of the tale she could not stop talking about it!”

  “Tale?” faltered Verity. She was suddenly the focus of sev­eral pairs of eyes and felt ready to sink.

  “Indeed! Did nothing of it come to your ears, Miss Worth?” asked one lady rather maliciously.

  “As point of fact, I informed Miss Worth of the details my­self when I came to visit her,” said Mrs. Arnold. “I assure you, she was just as shocked by it as I was. There is not a bit of truth in it, of course.”

  “Miss Pettiforth has always been a somewhat jealous and capricious young lady,” interjected Miss Tibbs. “In the past, her nature has led her to believe even those things of her own making.” Miss Tibbs had spoken as though only to herself, but her words were heard by several of those standing about. Sharp glances were sent her way, but the governess seemed quite insensitive to them.

  “I have heard before much the same thing from my sister, Lady Redding,” said one lady thoughtfully to her companion. “You know her, of course, Tilly. We attended a small turtle dinner at her invitation not two weeks past. It seems that my niece, Camilla, and a few other young ladies of the surrounding county have often been the object of Miss Pettiforth’s little jealousies.”

  The lady’s companion frowned and nodded. “Yes, I seem to recall that there was an expression of relief that Miss Worth had been able to curb Miss Pettiforth to a small extent. How extraordinary!”

  “If there is anything that one might do-”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Miss Tibbs firmly. “However, I believe that Mrs. Pettiforth and I shall be well able to handle the matter. I know that Mrs. Pettiforth would not wish to bur­den any one of you. And indeed, I would be remiss in uphold­ing her standard of hospitality if I did not urge you to return to your beds.”