by Sara Portman
If only Lady Constance could be reassured of that. If only there were a way for her to know.
Lucy paused.
“Is that why you’ve returned to England?” Lucy asked. “To look after your niece’s welfare?”
“One must always look after family, ma petite.”
Lucy nodded silently. She thought about the gossip she had heard at the Ashbys’ dinner party. How very misunderstood this woman was from what everyone believed. “Is she in London?” Lucy asked.
“She is not in London. Her husband has a small estate in Hertfordshire.”
“How will you look after her if you cannot write?” Lucy pressed.
Lady Constance sighed heavily. “I had hoped, now that I am residing in England, she might have an opportunity to reach out to me. I have not been subtle in my return to society. If she corresponds with her brother, or anyone else in London for that matter, she must know I’ve arrived.”
“But you have not received word from her?”
“No, I have not.” Lady Constance pursed her lips. “She is not my child, after all, and it is probably not my place to interfere. Yet I find I am unable to let it rest until I can at least be assured he has not done her any real harm.”
Lucy shook her head, wondering at the anxiety the older woman must feel in not knowing. “So what shall you do?” she asked.
“I imagine I shall just have to witness her condition in person. Hertfordshire is not far.”
“You will travel to her, then?”
“The travel is already arranged. I depart the day after tomorrow and shall return the following day.”
Lucy could not imagine what it must be like. Worrying for a loved one from across the channel must have been difficult, but being as close as Hertfordshire and not knowing must be torturous. She bit her lip. “What if he does not allow you to see her?” she asked, then immediately regretted the question. She did not wish to add to the woman’s concerns.
“I imagine I shall have to engage in a tantrum on his doorstep. Of course, that will not likely improve our opinion of each other, will it?”
Lucy was quiet for a long moment. How disappointing that would be—to come so far only to be turned away. There had to be some better way.
She looked up at the other woman, thoughts whirling. “What if someone else were to call upon your niece, Lady Constance?” As soon as she’d spoken, she realized the flaw in this approach. “I realize a call by a stranger would be impractical, but what if she were to develop a ruse of some sort? She could be soliciting donations for the church or some other cause.”
Lady Constance pursed her lips in consideration. “I very much want to see my niece with my own eyes,” she said, “but I will concede your subterfuge may be more successful than my infantile tantrum.” She gave a succinct nod. “Yes. That may be a very clever plan, ma petite. Very clever.” She settled back into her seat then and reached down to smooth her skirts as though they had been discussing the weather in the park, or their dressmaking appointment. “Will you accompany me on my journey into Hertfordshire, then?”
Lucy’s eyes widened. She hadn’t meant that she should call upon the woman. “I…Lady Constance, I don’t think…that is to say, I don’t know…” She stopped, swallowed, and began again. “Surely there would be someone more appropriate than I to call upon your niece.”
“Nonsense. You are perfect,” the comtesse said, waving her hand as though the objection were a tangible thing and she could clear it away. “The idea was yours to begin with. Your father is a country vicar. You are exactly the sort of girl who might be traipsing across the countryside soliciting donations for the church or some other charitable cause. I would venture to say you’ve already done such a thing in your young life.”
Well she had. Of course she had, but not outside of the sphere within which she was known—never outside of her father’s parish. “I don’t know,” Lucy hedged. “I don’t believe I should be very skilled at subterfuge. What if I am found out?”
Lady Constance smiled benevolently. “Well, I should think that is the point. If you are to learn anything of significance about Annabelle, you must eventually reveal that you have visited at my request. The ruse simply gets you past the threshold, ma chere.”
Lucy felt her stomach tighten, anxiety already building at the thought of carrying out such a scheme. Although she was admittedly untested, she felt quite certain she would prove horrible at pretense. She hated the very thought of it.
But of course, she had proposed it, hadn’t she? She thought of all the comtesse had already done—uprooted her life out of concern for her niece—and guilt suffused her for her cowardice. If Lady Constance could return to England after decades away, surely Lucy could manage an afternoon of playacting in order to come to her aid. Couldn’t she? How much more difficult than charades could this truly be?
“I shall do it,” she said with a firm nod of decision. “I will speak with the duchess, but I am certain she can spare my company for a pair of days when the purpose is so worthy.”
Gratitude and relief flooded the older woman’s expression, solidifying Lucy’s resolve to do just as she had promised. The comtesse reached out to squeeze Lucy’s hand with her own. “Merci, ma petite,” she said, her voice quiet and wavering.
Lucy squeezed the hand in return and watched as the emotion was suppressed as quickly as it had been revealed.
Lady Constance lifted her chin and pursed her lips again. “Once I discover whether she requires my assistance,” she said, spirit flashing in her ageless eyes, “I shall determine how best to provide it.”
Lucy nodded. “She is very fortunate to have an aunt such as yourself.”
Lady Constance smiled, and winked at Lucy, the laughter returning to her eyes. “Indeed,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “We shall have a lovely concert on Friday next, but first we shall have some adventure.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lucy was again waiting in the front hall of Worley House, this time her small valise by her side, when the comtesse’s carriage arrived. It was a grand conveyance—not the vehicle in which Lucy had been collected for the dressmaker’s appointment, but one designed for comfort on longer journeys. It was, Lucy noted, nearly as grand as those that bore the Worley crest.
It occurred to her, as she descended the steps of Worley House, that a woman soliciting contributions for a charity would not usually be traveling the countryside in such a luxurious vehicle. She considered possible alternatives to overcome this obvious complication as she accepted the aiding hand of the liveried coachman and began her climb into the vehicle.
“Good morning, Miss Betancourt.”
Her eyes snapped up at the sound of the deep, male voice welcoming her into the vehicle, though she knew its possessor before her eyes landed upon him in the dim interior.
Bex Brantwood.
Lucy stumbled on the step and had to tighten her grip on the coachman’s arm. Thankfully, he felt her falter and swiftly prevented disaster by placing his other hand on her back. She shot him a grateful smile.
Once safely inside, she seated herself next to Lady Constance on the forward-facing seat and looked between the two occupants. “Good morning Lady Constance, Mr. Brantwood.” She smiled expectantly. Surely some explanation would be forthcoming, would it not?
When it was not immediately offered, impatience got the better of her and she looked to the comtesse. “Has there been an alteration of our plans?”
“Just a bit, ma chere,” Lady Constance said. “I will admit I was considering our ruse for you and decided it is improbable that anyone calling on my niece and her husband to solicit contributions might be unfamiliar to them. More likely, it would be someone from the rectory, or nearby orphanage, or some other local institution, don’t you agree?”
She did agree, but she didn’t see where that necessitated the company o
f Mr. Brantwood. She shot him an accusing look.
He responded with a questioning lift of his brows.
Lady Constance continued. “Well, I decided we needed a different story for you altogether.” She turned to smile at Bex. “Mr. Brantwood was kind enough to call upon me yesterday and he happened to mention he had business in Hertfordshire. It seemed too convenient a coincidence to dismiss, so I explained our purpose in traveling there and gained his cooperation.” She looked to Lucy again. “I do think this shall be so much better.”
“I see,” Lucy said. She looked at Bex, where he sat across from her, appearing every bit the carefree gentleman traveler. Had he not earlier that week declared to her that he was a man with no purpose—that he had no business anywhere, much less Hertfordshire? His business was to prey upon the unsuspecting comtesse, she was sure of it. Had he no shame?
She looked into his eyes and wondered at the gall of the man, that he could unflinchingly meet her gaze. “And how will Mr. Brantwood be cooperating?” she asked the comtesse, though her hold of Bex’s eyes never wavered.
“We have decided it is much more practical for you and Mr. Brantwood to pretend to be a married couple who encounter some difficulty, such as trouble with your carriage. It would be entirely expected for you to impose upon their hospitality while the coachman sees to the repair.”
Lucy turned to Lady Constance at that revelation, feeling her cheeks warm. “You are suggesting that Mr. Brantwood and I pose as husband and wife?”
Lady Constance smiled brightly. “It’s a much better story, don’t you agree?”
The smile Lucy returned was considerably more tremulous. “That is clever,” she said, turning to Bex as she spoke. Too clever by half.
A slow, sinking feeling began to develop in Lucy’s midsection as she looked between her two companions. There was irony, she was certain, in the fact that Lady Constance was seeking out her family for her niece’s protection, when the lady herself was in need of family to protect her from fortune hunters. It seemed, if that family was not of a mind to concern themselves with their aunt, the task must fall to Lucy.
She leaned back in her seat and faced the window, taking in the sights as the busy movements of town gave way to views of green spaces and leaf-laden trees.
Adventure, indeed.
* * * *
“Tell me, Mr. Brantwood,” Lucy said, once they were well outside the noise of the city, “what is your business in Hertfordshire?” She suspected his business would have been in York, if that had been the comtesse’s destination, but she waited politely for his answer just the same.
He looked up from the newspaper he had been studying and smiled cryptically at her in a way that made her feel at once warmed and annoyed. “Textiles, Miss Betancourt.”
“Textiles?” she repeated, incredulous. That was the best explanation he could provide?
“That is correct. My business in Hertfordshire is textiles.”
“I see.” What she saw most was that he was a much more skilled liar than she would ever be, but still not good enough. Who was intended to believe this nonsensical explanation? “Are you making a purchase, then, Mr. Brantwood? Of textiles?” She resisted the urge to lift her eyes heavenward. He’d had all night to concoct some legitimate business. The result had been a single, vague word?
“No.”
When he did not expound, she pressed, “What sort of textiles? Silk, perhaps?” She considered him. Perhaps he thought to convince Lady Constance he was not a fortune hunter by creating the appearance that he did, in fact, have business interests.
Bex folded the newspaper and set it on the seat beside him. “Cotton,” he said simply.
Lucy’s gaze narrowed. So he had concocted two words for Lady Constance, but what of her? He could not have forgotten that barely a week prior he had told her quite clearly that he was a man with no living or income. Would he lie to her face now, in front of Lady Constance?
Lucy straightened in her seat. “I wasn’t aware your family had any business interests in Hertfordshire,” she said, working to keep her tone light and her expression placid.
“My family does not,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and gazing at her quizzically. “That is to say, my father does not. I cannot speak for the duke, of course. I have no knowledge of his holdings. I am sure they are quite vast, but they have nothing to do with me.”
Lucy pounced. “If you are not making a purchase of textiles and your family has no holdings, what precisely brings you to Hertfordshire, Mr. Brantwood?”
“I have a small, speculative investment in a weaving operation in Watford.”
Lucy paused. She looked at him. His response had been surprisingly specific for a man fabricating a story. “A speculative investment?” she asked, and this time it was curiosity as much as suspicion that prompted the question.
“Indeed.”
Lucy heard the sound of a small sigh to her left that drew her attention to Lady Constance. Clearly, although Lucy had been caught up in her line of questions for Bex, the comtesse had not been paying the close attention she would have hoped. Indeed, the other woman’s eyes fluttered closed as Lucy watched her gradually lean into the corner, lulled into ever-deeper slumber by the steady, rocking motion of the carriage.
Lucy waited, listening for the rhythmic breaths that verified sleep, before she turned back to face the man who sat on the opposite bench. “What do you think you’re doing,” she hissed, quietly enough not to disturb their sleeping hostess.
He snapped to attention, his brow furrowing at her question. “Traveling to Hertfordshire?” He spoke it as a question—as though her tone had called his own understanding into doubt.
“Why are you traveling to Hertfordshire?” she whispered. “Why are you calling on Lady Constance so often?”
His mouth curved into a knowing grin and one brow arched sardonically. “Saint Lucy, are you envious for my attentions?”
“Of course I am not envious,” she whispered, checking quickly to see that the comtesse was not disturbed, “particularly as I know your attentions are false.”
Bex’s brows rose at the accusation. “How am I being false?”
She cut him her severest look.
He chuckled softly. “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t practice governessing on me, Saint Lucy,” he said. “Not when I’ve no idea what I’ve done to deserve a scolding.”
Lucy looked to Lady Constance again, wishing he would lower his voice until she’d managed to say what needed saying. When she was certain the woman was still asleep, she turned back to Bex and did not waste time. “If your father continues to insist you play the fortune hunter, you shall have to find your prey elsewhere.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at him, daring him to deny it.
He did not.
He laughed. He at least had the presence of mind to recall their companion and did so quietly, his shoulders shaking with silent mirth.
It rankled, all the same.
“You don’t even deny it,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
He placed his open palm on his chest as his laughter subsided. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, grinning crookedly at her. “I was too diverted to compose denials.” He leaned forward, resting one forearm on each knee. “Do you really think I am advancing my suit of the comtesse?” he whispered.
She glared in response and he shook his head. “Oh, Saint Lucy, what a devil you must believe me to be.”
Lucy did not see the humor in taking advantage of another person, particularly not one who had been so friendly and welcoming to them both. “You are worse than a devil if you are trying to convince her of your affection for her,” she said, leaning forward herself to ensure he could hear the quietly spoken words.
A grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he asked, “Are you certain you are not envious, dear? We do
have a history, you and I.”
She cut him a look. “No, I am not envious. I am concerned for a friend—a friend for whom I have genuine affection.” Lucy ignored the very clear memory from earlier that week when Bex had called upon Lady Constance. Surely the sting of betrayal she’d felt at his arrival was due to his dishonesty—not envy. They were friends, after all—at least she’d believed him worthy of friendship.
Now she didn’t know what to believe about him.
She leaned toward him. “Have you no shame? She is more than twice your age.”
He looked placidly at her then blinked, twice. “Are you finished?”
She pressed her lips into a grim line, considering how to respond—recovering control of her response. She took a deep breath and exhaled it. “Only if you have finished with this deception,” she said primly, feeling very much like the governess he had accused her of being.
Bex lifted his hand and tapped one finger on the tip of her nose. The action was complete before she could have responded, or else she would have batted the hand away. As it was, she immediately retreated backward into her seat.
He chuckled, soft and low. “Rest easy, Saint Lucy. It is finished because it never began.”
She glanced again at the slumbering comtesse. “You deny you have an ulterior motive in calling on her—in inserting yourself into this journey into Hertfordshire?”
He shrugged. “I enjoy her company because she is clever, and irreverent, and because she tolerates me despite my utter lack of good manners.”
Lucy watched him, unconvinced.
“But,” he added, his mouth widening to a self-deprecating grin, “I told you before that I was an opportunist. I do gain advantage from our association.”
Lucy shot forward in her seat again. “What advantage?” she whispered sharply.
Bex tilted his head to one side. “I am not courting the comtesse, but where is the harm in letting my father believe it for a time if it provides me some peace?”
