Lady Fieldhurst winced at the idea of being further beholden to Mr. Pickett’s disapproving mentor, but she was practical enough to admit that accepting Mr. Colquhoun’s generosity was better by far than trudging along the road—or, worse, the beach—with her train thrown over her arm. She asked Harold if he had conveyed their thanks to Mr. Colquhoun, but received no answer; that young man’s mind had already moved on to more pressing concerns.
“Do you think Miss Kirkbride would be willing to dance with me?” he asked in an off-hand manner that did not deceive the viscountess for a moment.
“I think it very likely.” She knew, as Harold did not, that as the guest of honor Miss Kirkbride would be expected to partner as many of her male guests as possible. The only trick would be seeing to it that Harold did not mistake Miss Kirkbride’s good manners for encouragement to sit in her pocket all the evening. “But you must remember to seek out other partners as well, you know. It is not at all the thing to dangle after one lady to the exclusion of all others.”
“In that case, I hope you will do me the honor, my lady,” Harold replied, bowing deeply from the waist with exaggerated gallantry.
Lady Fieldhurst laughed and sank into a deep curtsy. “You are too kind, Mr. Bertram. But I must remind you that I am in mourning, and may not join in the dancing without being thought shockingly forward.”
“No dancing? But what will you do instead?”
She shrugged. “I daresay I shall sit against the wall with the dowagers.”
“I say, that seems deuced unfair,” Harold said with some chagrin. “But if you won’t be dancing, then—then I shan’t either.” This declaration was accompanied by an expression of such noble self-sacrifice that she was hard-pressed to keep a straight face.
“Nonsense! Frederick was only a cousin to you, and not even a close one at that. Besides,” she added, seeing he was not convinced, “there are always more ladies than gentlemen at a ball, you know.”
“Really?” asked Harold, much struck.
“Oh yes! It is the bane of hostesses everywhere. An eligible gentleman will be expected to assist his hostess by partnering as many ladies as possible, not devote himself to his widowed ‘aunt.’ ”
Harold seemed happy to accept this reasoning, for which Lady Fieldhurst was grateful; she had no desire to keep her terrace rendezvous with Mr. Pickett with Harold tied to her apron strings. And if a little voice demanded to know why Harold’s presence at this tryst would be so very undesirable, it was easily silenced with the argument that the fewer people congregated on the terrace the better, as they would be less likely to garner unwanted attention.
As Lady Fieldhurst had predicted, the first hour of the ball kept her far too busy to seek out Mr. Pickett even had she attempted to do so. She was obliged first to say all that was proper to her host, Mr. Angus Kirkbride, then inquire into the health of the guest of honor. Miss Kirkbride, Julia was forced to own, was in exceptional looks, and if her gown was a bit old-fashioned (unearthed from among her mother’s things, said Miss Kirk-bride, she not having had an opportunity to have anything new made up for the occasion), this circumstance only added to her mystique. Mr. Duncan Kirkbride bowed low over Julia’s hand and rather curtly expressed his pleasure at seeing her again, then took himself off to lead out a very young lady in pink satin for the opening set.
“What a pretty girl,” Lady Fieldhurst observed as she answered Mr. Gavin’s bow with a curtsy. “Who, pray, is Duncan’s fair partner?”
“You must be thinking of Miss McFarland,” Gavin said, following her gaze. “We are expecting an interesting announcement there any day.”
“Indeed? But she seems so much younger than he.” Not to mention the fact that the poor girl looked terrified of her formidable suitor. “He must be almost twenty years her senior. Can he truly be happy with such a young lady, or she with him?”
“I see you are a romantic, Mrs. Pickett,” observed Gavin wryly. “You must have made a love match for yourself, and now you believe everyone seeks a marriage based on the tender passion. But there are those who haven’t the luxury of marrying to please themselves. For them there are other, more pressing concerns.”
Indeed there were, such as wealth and land and the begetting of heirs. But Lady Fieldhurst had no intention of carrying on a conversation in which she felt herself to be on very shaky ground. “If we are to speak of pressing concerns, I fear I am keeping you from your duties as host. I must not keep you here talking to me when you should be securing a partner for the Scottish reel.”
Gavin was quick to demur, but Lady Fieldhurst insisted upon her willingness, nay, eagerness, to observe the dancing from one of the chairs positioned against the walls. For the next half-hour, she sat amongst the dowagers, tapping her foot in time to the music while she watched the clock and counted the moments until she could seek out Mr. Pickett on the terrace. At length she saw Duncan heading in her direction, having surrendered Miss McFarland to Harold for the next set. Driven as much by boredom as by the desire to assist Mr. Pickett in his investigations, she rose from her chair and contrived to intercept the surliest of the Kirkbride cousins as he crossed the room.
“Oh Duncan, you are just the person I need!” she trilled brightly. “Mrs. Murray has been singing the praises of your uncle’s champagne. Can you tell me where I might find a glass?”
Thus cornered, Duncan Kirkbride had no choice but to play the gallant. “Not at all, my lady,” he said, baring his teeth in what she supposed must pass for a smile. “You must allow me to fetch you a glass.”
She thanked him profusely, and soon he returned bearing two flutes. She accepted one and took a sip.
“Ah! Mrs. Murray was not wrong.” Before he could make his excuses and abandon her to the dowagers, she laid her hand on his arm and leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I do hope we will not have another visit from that strange man who burst in yesterday. I must say, I thought you handled the situation very well—with Miss Kirkbride’s assistance, of course.”
“Of course,” he agreed sardonically.
“Gavin said the fellow was once employed in your stables. I was never more shocked! I could not help wondering if he was perhaps the person with whom Elspeth—the person to whom you referred during our conversation yesterday.”
Duncan tipped up his champagne glass and drained it in a single gulp. “Aye, it was he.”
“It must have been most difficult for you, seeing the pair of them together again. At least—” She knew she had to be careful and not overplay her hand. “—At least I suppose it would have been, if you had truly loved her.”
“ ‘If’?” Duncan gave a short, humorless laugh. “I shall love Elspeth until I die.”
Lady Fieldhurst almost choked on her champagne. “But—forgive me, but I was under the impression that you had an understanding with Miss McFarland.”
“There comes a time in a man’s life, my lady, when he tires of pining for things he can’t have.”
Duncan raised his glass, and seemed surprised to find it empty. Lady Fieldhurst wished she had the means to refill it; the champagne seemed to have the happy effect of loosening his tongue.
“Then you were not courting Miss Kirkbride at your uncle’s behest all those years ago?”
“I see the fell hand of my busy Aunt Malcolm at work,” he said dryly.
Lady Fieldhurst determinedly held her tongue, hoping Duncan would feel compelled to fill the silence. He did not disappoint her.
“But I can see how my aunt might have come to such a conclusion. She remembers me in my younger days when, like so many very young men, I wanted only to escape the home I had known all my life. I could hardly wait to go to school, to see parts of the world I had only read about.” He sighed, remembering. “Within six months, I wanted nothing more than to return. The years that followed were the worst of my life. I felt as if I had been exiled from all I had ever known and loved.”
“But your education was eventuall
y complete, and you were able to come back home.”
“Aye, and I could not post back to Scotland soon enough! As soon as I passed through the front gates, it was as if I had never left. The house, the land, the sea beyond—everything was just the same.” He frowned thoughtfully. “No, not quite everything. When I left, Elspeth had been a hoyden with torn stockings and uncombed hair. I returned to find her grown into a beautiful and desirable young woman, a woman who embodied everything I loved and thought I had lost. Is it any wonder I fell head over ears?”
“Your uncle must have been pleased,” Lady Fieldhurst observed.
Again that bitter laugh. “If my uncle had refrained from meddling, he might have had his dearest wish! I believe Elspeth might have come to care for me—nay, I believe she did care for me, until Uncle Angus announced his intention of seeing her wed to either me or Gavin. Gavin had always been the smarter one, the richer one, the more dashing one, but Elspeth seemed to prefer me. I could hardly believe my own luck.”
The viscountess’s eyebrows rose. “Forgive me, but I was under the impression that you and Gavin had grown up almost as brothers.”
“Aye, but even brothers can be rivals as well as friends. It wasn’t to Gavin that I lost her in the end, though. Elspeth leapt to the conclusion that I had been courting her for the sake of her father’s fortune, and nothing I could do or say could convince her otherwise. I believe you can guess what happened next.”
“The stable hand,” murmured the viscountess.
“She was found in a compromising situation with one of the stable hands—a lad, moreover, with Kirkbride blood in his veins, wrong side of the blanket. I remember it as if it were yesterday: Elspeth standing there with hay in her hair and her clothes in disarray, telling Uncle Angus that if she must needs marry a cousin, Neil would do as well as any other. At that moment I didn’t know who I hated the most, young Neil or Elspeth. To this day, I don’t know if she had feelings for the lad, or if she simply wanted to strike out in the way that would cause the most pain.” He stared down at his empty glass as if he had hoped to find answers there. “And then to have her wash ashore the way she did, ripping the scab off a wound still raw after fifteen years—I wish to God she had never returned!”
“You are satisfied, then, that she is truly your cousin?”
“Aye, I’m satisfied, all right!” he said tartly. “Elspeth always had a rare gift for throwing the household into turmoil. It seems some things never change.”
“But why Neil? Why not Gavin?”
Duncan shook his head. “Elspeth wasn’t content with ripping my heart out; she wanted to wound her father as well. Gavin never would have suited her purposes, for Uncle Angus would have been just as pleased had she married him. But there was never a possibility of marriage with Gavin in any case; he had hopes of marrying a young lady he’d met in England. He was always more English than Scots, my cousin Gavin. His father held a seat in Parliament, and Gavin spent his school holidays in London.”
“I gather his suit did not prosper, else he would not still be a bachelor,” she observed.
“Nay, it prospered, all right. His wife died in childbirth, and the babe with her.”
Lady Fieldhurst blinked, taken aback by this revelation. Certainly no outside observer would guess that Gavin’s urbane manner concealed the tragic loss of a wife and child. “I see. Your family has known more than its share of tragedy.”
Duncan neither agreed nor disagreed, but muttered something about having to see to his uncle’s other guests and took himself off. It was just as well, thought the viscountess, as it now lacked only five minutes until ten o’clock.
Instead of returning to her chair against the wall, she made up a plate of lobster patties and rout cakes from the spread in the refreshment room. On a sudden impulse, she snagged a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing servant before moving inconspicuously along the wall in the direction of the French windows. Then, in the confusion afforded by the end of the set and the changing of partners, she slipped out onto the terrace.
After the brilliant candlelight of the ball, the darkness of the terrace rendered her temporarily blind. As her eyes adjusted, however, she began to make out the silver trail of moonlight glinting on the sea below and, nearer, the boxwood hedge she had described to Mr. Pickett.
“Hsst! Over here!”
Mr. Pickett’s voice came from somewhere in the blackness to the right of the French windows. Lady Fieldhurst took a few cautious steps in that direction, and as she moved out of the bright rectangle of light cast onto the paving stones by the candlelight within, the darkness resolved itself into shapes—the great hedge here, a piece of statuary there, and beyond that, in the gap between the vegetation and the house, a tall young man with his arm held out to her.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said, moving into the shadows. “I have been having the most enlightening conversation with Duncan Kirkbride! I trust you had no difficulty navigating the cliff path in the dark?”
“Not coming up, but it’s getting back down that will be the challenge. I hear the first step is a thumper.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Lady Fieldhurst confessed, guilt-ridden. “Should I have smuggled out a candle for you, to light your way down?”
“You look as if you have your hands full already,” said Pickett, taking the plate from her. “What is all this?”
“I thought you might be hungry. And thirsty,” she added, offering the crystal flute.
“Champagne?” She could not see his face, but his voice was playfully challenging.
She shrugged. “And why not? You only live once.”
“You, my lady, are a bad influence, just like Mr.—just like I’ve always suspected,” he amended quickly, but she was not deceived. Just like Mr. Colquhoun said, was what he meant. She wondered what else Mr. Colquhoun might have told him. Did he know, for instance, that the magistrate had warned her to keep her distance?
But there were more urgent matters to consider at the moment. “How much have you seen?” she asked. “Have you been able to identify the principal players?”
“Well, Angus Kirkbride is easy to recognize. He’s the gentleman in the Bath chair with the tartan lap robe, is he not?”
“Yes, and both of his nephews are dancing at the moment. If you take a step this way, you can see them. Duncan is partnering his aunt, Lady Malcolm, and Gavin is squiring that lady in the blue turban.”
He leaned in the direction she indicated, craning his neck to see into the room without stepping into the light. “But which one is our mystery lady? I haven’t been able to distinguish Elspeth Kirkbride.”
“I am disappointed in you, Mr. Pickett! I should have thought you would have recognized her at once. She is the dark lady in green—the one Harold is practically drooling over.”
“That is Miss Kirkbride? But that’s impossible!”
“I assure you, it is she. Why should it be impossible?”
He looked down at her, and she could see his eyes glinting in the shadows. “Because that is Elizabeth Church, queen of the Drury Lane stage.”
CHAPTER 11
IN WHICH JOHN PICKETT ATTENDS
HIS FIRST BALL
* * *
“An actress?” Lady Fieldhurst leaned past Pickett for a closer look, as if the woman in question should somehow look different in the light of this revelation.
“It makes sense, in a way. Who better to play a part, and play it convincingly, than one who does it every day for a living?”
“Yes, but—Mrs. Church? Are you certain?”
“I’m positive. I’ve seen her often enough: as Lady Macbeth, as Portia, as Ophelia—” He slapped his forehead. “I’m a fool! Of course your sketch looked familiar. She assumed the same pose in Ophelia’s drowning scene, with one arm stretched out beneath her head to cushion it against the hard wooden floor of the stage. You were there, too, on that occasion,” he added, looking down at Lady Fieldhurst.
&nbs
p; “Yes, but Ophelia was fair,” insisted her ladyship. “Miss Kirk-bride is dark. The two look nothing alike.”
“She wore a wig for the part, but you can see the resemblance in the way she carries herself, the way she moves.”
Lady Fieldhurst watched the faux Elspeth Kirkbride for a long moment, then shook her head. “I fear I haven’t your eye for detail, Mr. Pickett.”
“It is a peculiarity of the theatre that the rabble sitting in the pit have a better view of the stage than the aristocrats in their boxes,” observed Pickett. “I noticed it that night you invited me to your box. Perhaps that would account for your apparent lack of perception. Or—” His teeth gleamed faintly in the dark, and she could tell by his tone that he was smiling. “Perhaps it is due to the fact that you nobs come to the theatre to see each other and be seen, rather than from any appreciation of drama.”
“Guilty as charged,” admitted her ladyship, raising her hands in mock surrender. “But confess, Mr. Pickett, had my attention been totally focused on the stage, I should not have seen you seated in the pit below.”
“And you would not have summoned me to your box and been banished to Scotland for your sins,” he added.
“Very true,” she agreed, deriving no small satisfaction from the knowledge that her exile had not proven to be the punishment the Bertram cabal had intended. “In any case, if you are certain of the woman’s identity, what will you do now?”
He sighed. “First I must report my findings to Mr. Colquhoun, and either he or I will have to tell Mr. Kirkbride that his ‘daughter’ is a fraud.”
“Then Duncan had it right the first time, although by now she has even convinced him of her authenticity. Will you arrest her?”
“On what charge? So far as I can tell, she’s broken no laws—at least, not yet.”
Lady Fieldhurst could not agree. “But—but she’s perpetrating a hoax, surely, claiming to be someone she is not!”
“Like you, presenting yourself as Mrs. Pickett?” Again that teasing tone, that flash of white teeth.
Family Plot Page 11
