Jane Feather

by Engagement at Beaufort Hall

  Charles brought her a glass of sherry. “A dry sherry, my dear Imogen. I know you prefer it to cream sherry or to Madeira.”

  “Your memory was always infallible, dear Charles,” she returned, her voice low but dripping sarcasm. “Why didn’t you warn me this was to be a party?”

  “The invitation was to your brother,” he reminded her, his voice as low. “I saw no need to alert Duncan to the number of my guests.”

  “You knew damned well that if you’d told me, I would not have come,” she retorted in a fierce undertone. “It was an underhand trick, Charles, and I was a fool to imagine that you were no longer prepared to practice them.”

  He frowned at the accusation. “I admit to a slight manipulation because I wanted to see you. After last night, I couldn’t face the thought of a whole day without speaking with you again, and I could do nothing to change this arrangement.” He gestured with his glass to the assembled company. “I will contrive somehow that we should have a little time to ourselves after luncheon. We have so much to talk about . . . to decide.”

  Decide? There was nothing to decide. His eyes had taken on that dark velvety brown glow, and she could feel again his hands at her waist as he’d lifted her from her horse . . . and he was trying to seduce her again, stealing away her righteous anger at this blatant manipulation. How many times had she turned a blind eye to some action or words of his that had felt wrong to her? That blind eye had led to all the wretched mess of a broken engagement when she’d been forced to confront the reality of their differences, and it would not happen again.

  “I have other matters to attend to, Charles. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me if I make an early departure after luncheon.” She walked away from him to a group of young people gathered by the fireplace.

  Charles looked after her, controlling the urge to seize her by the shoulders and shake that hauteur out of her. It was the one thing that she knew would infuriate him, one of her most provocative tricks that had caused some of their most spectacular fights. “You look as if you could wring Gen’s neck,” a soft voice observed at his elbow.

  He turned to Esther, who was standing beside him with an air of faint amusement. “So I could,” he responded. “Sometimes I’d like to strangle her and throw her body in the lake.”

  “Except that it’s frozen,” Esther said with a sweet smile. “But of course you know that.”

  His brown eyes sharpened. “So Gen told you.”

  Esther nodded and took a sip from her glass. “She was also making plans to return to London, but after this little spectacle she might well have changed her mind.” She gestured with her free hand to the crowded drawing room.

  “Was it that bad?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. “I didn’t lie to her.”

  “No, but not all lies are those of commission as I’ve heard you say many times. In court you’re as quick to expose those of omission as well as commission. I’ve heard you say so on many occasions.”

  He shook his head with a rueful smile. “You’re as bad as each other, you two. Tongues like rapiers and you never miss a trick.”

  “Well, really, Charles, how could you possibly have imagined that it was fair to Gen to oblige her to walk into this social trap quite unawares?”

  “I didn’t think of it like that,” he confessed. “But what do I do now to pour oil, Esther?”

  “Follow Gen’s lead and steer clear of any signs of undue intimacy,” was the swift advice. “Make sure she’s sitting next to someone at luncheon whom she actually likes, and well away from you.”

  “Oh . . .” He frowned. “I had intended to have her next to me.”

  Esther shook her head. “Sometimes I despair of you, Charles. Try to see things through Gen’s eyes for once.” She moved away from him with a neutral smile, as if they’d been having the most ordinary conversation imaginable, and went to support her sister.

  “Yes . . . it was certainly a surprise to find that Mr. Riverdale had acquired Beringer Manor,” Imogen was saying to the circle around her. She smiled brightly. “But it’s always pleasant to know one’s neighbors, don’t you think?” She sipped her sherry. “So much nicer than finding oneself with complete strangers in one’s midst.”

  Imogen really didn’t need much support, Esther reflected. What could anyone say to that blithe and unarguable statement without sounding utterly crass?

  Charles left the drawing room after his exchange with Esther to rearrange the place cards in the dining room. He felt a fool after Esther’s castigation. Somehow he had thought, after last night on the ice, when Gen had been so responsive, so warm, so much her old self, that it would be plain sailing from now on. She knew as well as he did that they were made for each other. Oh, they fought tooth and nail sometimes, but the bedrock of their love, liking, lusting for each other was as solid as ever. But it seemed she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Typical female perversity, he thought crossly as he switched her name card with that of a young lady barely out of the schoolroom whom he’d thought to pair with Harry Graham. He’d do penance for his apparently arrogant assumptions by enduring the excruciating shyness of a demoiselle who was terrified to open her mouth in case she said something to annoy her ever watchful mother.

  Imogen had been aware of the colloquy between her sister and Charles but there was no opportunity to ask Esther what had been said as she returned service in the conversational match in which she found herself. She cursed Charles for his thoughtlessness, even as she wondered if the trap had really been deliberate. In her present mood it was easy to believe it had been, but a little voice nagged that she knew him so well, and while he might use a tactic like this to unnerve a witness in court, he would never deliberately put her through such a mill. She smiled through the barely concealed inquisitions of their elders, the throwaway comments about how nice it was to see her going out into society again, and how pleasant that she and Mr. Riverdale were able to get past the drama of such an abrupt broken engagement and behave in such a civilized fashion. Her hearing was particularly sharp, however, and she heard many variations on, “Fancy seeing Imogen here, of all places,” murmured from behind carefully plied fans and handkerchiefs.

  Anger and resentment burned as she entered the dining room on Harry Graham’s arm, but at least she was seated at the far end of the table away from their host. The dining room was as ugly as the drawing room, she reflected, casting a critical eye around as Harry pulled out her chair for her. The furniture was heavy Victorian oak for the most part, clumsy and unattractive, which was a pity, as the rooms themselves were beautifully proportioned, with high ceilings and delicate cornices. Charles must have bought the house furnished, she thought. Nothing in it reflected his own style, which was generally impeccable. How could he live with it like this?

  She almost found herself turning to ask him before catching herself abruptly. “I understand you met Duncan up at Oxford, Mr. Graham.” She placed her napkin on her lap, offering him a somewhat distracted smile. “You were in the year below, I believe?”

  “Oh, please, Miss Carstairs, may we dispense with the formalities,” he asked with a warm smile.

  “With pleasure, Harry.” She picked up her wineglass, which had just been filled by a footman. “How exactly did you and Duncan become friends?”

  “We both tried out for the fencing team,” he said. “We met on the piste in my third year and Duncan’s fourth.”

  “Duncan did not make the team, as I recall.” Imogen took a sliver of smoked trout on her fork. “Did you?”

  He looked a little embarrassed. “I won a blue in my final year.”

  “Well done.” She smiled at him. A blue was the top award for any sport at either Oxford or Cambridge, and they were rare. “So, now you’ve come down, how do you intend to pass your time?”

  “I have a living to earn,” he said, forking trout with a hearty appetite. “Unlike your brother, I have no independent means. I intend to study for the bar.” He glanced up at the table, to
where Charles was engaging young Miss Belvedere in conversation. Imogen followed his gaze and reflected with grim satisfaction that the discussion looked like a painful experience for both of them.

  Harry was continuing oblivious of his companion’s momentary distraction. “Mr. Riverdale has made quite a name for himself in Lincoln’s Inn. It makes sense to specialize in one particular area, I think. The new divorce laws are a particularly fruitful area, I should imagine.”

  “I believe Mr. Riverdale does well enough for himself,” she responded distantly. “So have you taken lodgings in London?”

  Harry looked askance. “I share lodgings with your brother. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”

  Imogen was too, but she managed a careless smile. “Duncan is not in the habit of confiding in his older sisters. I think he’s afraid we’ll lecture him too much. Esther and I would love it if he would live properly in Stanhope Terrace when he’s in town, but he uses the house just as his base and a poste restante as far as we can tell. If he insists on living the bachelor life, who are we to stop him?” She shrugged and broke a piece of bread before buttering it. “I’m sure we cramp his style.”

  “I can’t believe two fashionable sisters could cramp any young man’s style,” Harry said gallantly, sending Imogen into a peal of laughter.

  “Well said, Harry.” She became aware of Charles’s gaze suddenly riveted upon her. Her laugh had reached him up the length of the table and she could feel the hunger in his eyes, an almost envious hunger, she thought, as if he felt her laughter should be reserved only for himself. For a moment their eyes locked and the buzz around the table seemed to fade away, the room itself losing its hard contours, and then Imogen forced herself to look away, up at the footman who was offering a platter of roast pork.

  Chapter 10

  “Esther, I won’t stay a moment longer than I must,” Imogen warned her sister as they followed the rest of the women to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their obligatory half hour with the port. “I told Charles I would leave as soon as I decently could. Will you come with me, or do you wish to stay?”

  “Don’t be so daft,” Esther responded. “Of course I’m coming with you.”

  “I wonder if Duncan and his party will be ready to go.” Imogen was not in the least offended by her sister’s scornful epithet. She didn’t know why she’d asked the question in the first place. She was just confused, she told herself. Confused by the muddle of feelings. Sometimes she hated Charles and yet she loved him. He had tricked her, and yet he seemed genuinely remorseful, although bemused, almost as if he really didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.

  “My dear Miss Carstairs, how are you feeling?”

  Imogen turned, startled at the voice at her elbow. She hadn’t been aware of Miss Elspeth Spencer’s discreet approach. She offered the lady a bland smile. “Perfectly well, I thank you, Miss Spencer. Should I be feeling otherwise?”

  Miss Spencer laid a comforting hand on her arm. The hand was encased in silk mittens and a faint odor of must and ancient potpourri wafted from the puce watered silk that clad her angular frame. Her little blue eyes were sharp with malice. “My dear girl, we all feel for you so much, and I can’t tell you how much we admire your courage in coming here today. So brave . . . so very brave. Lady Darwin and Lady Mary were saying the very same thing. We were all in agreement and awe for your bravery.”

  Imogen looked at her interlocutor with an air of bewilderment. “But there was no danger in coming here, Miss Spencer. It is but five miles, and indeed, the roads were very dry, not really icy at all. I do believe you showed the greater courage in traveling by carriage from Ringwood—that must be all of ten miles, and the roads are not nearly as good.” Imogen felt Esther’s quiver of laughter beside her but maintained her own resolutely concerned if somewhat bewildered countenance. She took a cup of coffee from the tray passed by a parlormaid, maintaining her faint, inquiring smile.

  “Indeed.” Defeated, Miss Spencer moved away with a vague gesture.

  “Damn Charles,” Imogen muttered, drinking her coffee quickly, her eyes on the door. “The minute he shows his face,” she continued in a fierce undertone, “we’ll make our farewells and ride home. Duncan’s escort or not?”

  “I don’t think it matters one way or the other,” Esther responded. “We can ride home without an escort at this time of day. There are another couple of hours of daylight left.”

  Even in London the sisters usually went about without a chaperone, and lived in the house on Stanhope Terrace without a female companion. Of course, there was always the assumption that their brother, as head of the household, was nominally in charge of his sisters and lived beneath the same roof, but no one questioned this too closely.

  “I’ll ask the butler to send for our horses.” Imogen set down her cup and went into the hall to find the butler. She had just issued her instructions when the dining room door opened and the male guests emerged on a burst of laughter and chatter. They all looked as if they’d imbibed heartily of their host’s port.

  Imogen stood tapping her foot impatiently as Charles, catching sight of her, swiftly crossed the hall to her side. “Are you leaving?” His voice was somber.

  “Yes . . . or at least Esther and I are. I just asked your butler to send for our horses.” She moved ahead of him towards the drawing room, brushing his hand aside as he laid it on her arm. “I must thank you, Charles, for a delightful luncheon party.” Her smile was as artificial as her voice and made him grit his teeth.

  “It was an honor and a pleasure, ma’am,” he responded in the same tone. “A pleasure I hope we can repeat soon.”

  “How long are you in the country?”

  “That depends,” he said.

  “On what?”

  “Oh . . . this and that,” he returned with a careless shrug, his eyes unreadable. “May I fetch you coffee?”

  “Thank you, no. If you’ll excuse me . . .” She drifted away from him, making the rounds of the room with her goodbyes, Esther on her heels. A footman discreetly informed them that their horses were outside, and they slipped from the drawing room. Imogen caught Duncan’s startled glance as they left the room and he took a step to the door, but she raised an arresting hand and walked into the hall.

  “You didn’t tell Duncan we were leaving?” Esther inquired as she put on her fur-trimmed hat and drew on her gloves.

  “It was obvious enough,” her sister replied, buttoning her jacket. “I’m sure they won’t be ready to leave for some time. If anyone offers a game of billiards and a cigar . . .” She left the sentence in the air as they went outside into an increasingly gloomy afternoon. The morning’s sun had disappeared, and the low clouds were gray and heavy.

  “Feels like snow,” Esther observed, mounting with the help of a waiting groom, who then turned to give Imogen a leg up.

  Imogen settled into the saddle, and her horse sniffed the air with what sounded like a rather disapproving whicker. “I think Sadie agrees with you.” She leaned forward to pat the mare’s neck. “Let’s get a move on.”

  They gave their mounts their heads, letting them choose the pace over the ice-rutted lanes and then across the gorsy heath, where the wind whistled ominously. “Did you know Duncan was sharing lodgings with Harry Graham, Esther?”

  “No.” Esther looked interested. “I know he doesn’t often sleep at Stanhope Terrace, but I hadn’t realized he had officially moved elsewhere.”

  “According to Harry, he has.”

  “But why waste the money when he has a perfectly good home at one of the best addresses in London?”

  “A question to which I have no answer, my dear,” Imogen responded, but her words were lost in the wind, and they gave up conversation until they turned into the sheltered driveway of Beaufort Hall.

  “Home,” Esther declared, and her horse raised her head and sniffed, increasing her speed as she sensed the warmth of her stable and the bran mash that awaited. Sadie followed suit. A footman e
merged as they reached the front steps. He put two fingers to his lips and sent a piercing whistle into the freezing air. A groom appeared around the side of the house at a run as the women dismounted. The boy took the horses and the sisters went into the warm welcome of the house.

  “I suppose we have to change for dinner,” Imogen remarked as she headed for the stairs to take off her riding clothes. “Duncan and his party will be back. I doubt Charles will be inclined to entertain them all evening.”

  “Since you were the sole reason for the invitation, I should think that highly unlikely,” Esther responded with a chuckle, following her upstairs. “Poor Charles, his little scheme did rather backfire.”

  “Oh, he makes me so cross,” Imogen declared, turning aside at the head of the stairs to her own room. “How could he imagine that throwing me into that den of gossips would put things right between us? But, of course, he didn’t imagine it, not that or anything else. Why someone with such a creative soul should be so utterly blind to the feelings of others is a complete mystery to me.”

  “Does he have a creative soul?” her sister inquired with interest.

  Imogen felt her cheeks warm a little. “Yes, as it happens, he does. Music, theater, art . . . he’s passionate about them all.” Although the truly creative aspects of his soul, his more extreme flights of fancy, he kept for love play, she reflected, but that was not something to be shared with her sister, however dear she was.