Lady Pamela

by Amy Lake

  Benjamin was desperate. “My love—"

  This, it seemed, was the final straw.

  "Oh!” cried Pamela. Her eyes flashed furious blue fire and her hand flew up. She slapped him roundly across the face and ran.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lady Detweiler shook her head.

  "I cannot believe it,” she told Lady Pam. “You must have mistaken his meaning."

  "Mistake his meaning? No, I most assuredly did not!"

  "But—"

  "He is engaged to Lady Millicent! As good as married! And if there is hope, if we are to be together, as he says, what other meaning could there be?"

  "The duke—"

  "Horrible man! Abominable hypocrite!"

  "I am sure he could not—"

  "Cad!"

  Lady Pamela flung herself onto Amanda's lavender chintz chaise lounge and wept, continuing to curse Lord Torrance through fits of violent tears. Lady Detweiler poured herself a second glass of brandy and decided to wait it out.

  "Brute! Infamous jackanapes!"

  Amanda sighed, thinking that Lady Pamela's talent for expletives was sadly lacking. She would have cursed the duke herself, of course, except that she could not believe that Lord Torrance had really intended to offer Lady Pamela carte blanche. It simply did not fit anything she knew of the man. He was considerate, generous, honest to a fault-and deeply in love with Pamela Sinclair. Lord Torrance was the kind of man who would sacrifice everything to the best interests of his beloved.

  And the best interests of Lady Pam did not involve becoming mistress to another man, someone to follow in the footsteps of Edward Tremayne.

  Lord Torrance might have bumbled a bit in his courtship, but all men bumbled these things, it was a sad fact of their nature. The gentleman was not stupid, nor lacking in empathy. He knew as well as did Lady Detweiler that an offer of carte blanche would be deeply hurtful to Pam, an insult of the worst kind. It was true that she had been one man's chère amie, but for the duke to propose a similar arrangement now would suggest that he saw her in that light only, that mistress was all she ever could be.

  No. Lady Detweiler would wager a monkey that Lord Torrance had not said anything of the sort, nor given such an offense to Millicent, his bride-to-be.

  The bedchamber grate held a cheery fire; Lady Detweiler kicked off her slippers and warmed her toes before it, sipping brandy. The duke's words were a riddle, but every riddle had its solution. If Lord Torrance had not intended to offer carte blanche, then he must have intended something else. He must have meant, in fact, that he would soon be free to pursue Lady Pamela.

  Would soon be free, but was not yet so. And short of tossing Lady Millicent into a carriage with the worthless Lord Peabody, and sending them off in the direction of Gretna Green—

  Amanda chuckled softly, thinking that an excellent plan. ‘Twas lamentable that Lord Torrance was far too honourable a gentleman to propose it, and even Lady Detweiler might have demurred, since by the time the two reached Scotland, Lady Millicent would surely have had her fill of young Clarence's company. Silly, romantic, and naive was allowable in a female of Millicent's tender years; it should not be cause for a life's sentence of tedium.

  Lady Detweiler's toes began to feel over-warm. She drew them back and cast a glance in Lady Pamela's direction. Her friend was now reclining in the chaise, gesturing angrily at the ceiling.

  "If Lady Millicent is to be his bride,” said Pam, “I will rejoice. Some young, butter-won't-melt-in-her-mouth miss! They deserve each other!"

  Lady Pamela was never unkind. This, thought Lady Detweiler, must be stopped at once.

  "Yes,” drawled Amanda, “near rape is a trifle, after all. The chit should have squared her shoulders and soldiered on."

  "Oh—"

  "And to drag a duke into the matter was quite insupportable. Hang her by her pretty neck, I say."

  Lady Pamela stared at Amanda in shock, tears at an end.

  "Good heavens,” she said, sitting up on the chaise. “Have I truly been so ridiculous?"

  "Yes,” said Lady Detweiler, tossing her friend a handkerchief.

  Pam dabbed at her eyes, and said ruefully. “What is it about that man? I haven't acted such a goose since I was fifteen and the marchioness forbade me dancing with Lord—Oh, what was his name?"

  "Rimesby. A tiresome bore, as I recall."

  "Too true. But I won't see them after they are married. You must grant me that, Amanda. You cannot expect me to make the acquaintance of the new Duchess of Grentham. ‘Twould be insupportable."

  "But of course,” said Lady Detweiler, nodding her agreement. “We shall dress you in deepest mourning, and your groomsman will drive you around Hyde Park in a covered landaulet. Draped in black crêpe, of course."

  Lady Pamela started to laugh.

  "Young children will make up stories about your tragic past,” continued Amanda. “'She was beautiful, wealthy, and a beloved friend,’ they will say, ‘but she could have been a duchess!’”

  "Amanda!” Lady Pam protested. Her laughter was, as usual, turning to hiccups.

  "Even the dowagers will speak in hushed, respectful tones as you pass."

  Lady Pamela fell back against the chaise and raised one hand to her forehead in an erstwhile swoon. “I shall carry a lock of his hair against my bosom,” she intoned, “until the day I die."

  "Exactement. Brandy?” offered Amanda.

  "Indeed."

  Lady Detweiler poured her a large glass, and the two women sipped quietly for a few minutes, well-satisfied with their bit of folderol.

  But Lady Pamela soon became serious again, and said—

  "For a few months, at least. She will be wearing the ring, and I ... Well, it would be wrong of me to make him uncomfortable. He will need time as well, you know, to adjust to Lady Millicent as his bride."

  "Mmm."

  "It seems so strange. Do you know, Amanda, that I sometimes wake up and imagine the duchess's ring on my finger? I can feel it, almost, as if it was meant to be there."

  "And yet you refused him."

  "I suppose ... perhaps I thought there would be time. And I never imagined anyone else as his wife."

  'Twas indeed difficult to see Lady Millicent as a duchess, mused Lady Detweiler; difficult to imagine anyone other than Pamela as châtelaine of Marchers House, or wearing the Duchess of Grentham's great sapphire ring.

  Millicent Torrance, née Chambers. The Duke of Grentham's bride.

  Pah. What did Lady Millicent herself think of the matter? wondered Amanda. Was she giddy with excitement at the thought of becoming wife to a rich and powerful lord? Or did she wonder about the duke's own preferences, the life he might have had if he'd not been forced into marriage?

  Did she care?

  All questions, thought Lady Detweiler, that needed answers. She cast an impatient glance in the direction of her writing table and wondered if a second glass of brandy was in order for Lady Pam. Her friend was near exhaustion already, and if she could be convinced into a nap, Lady Detweiler would have the chance to dash off a short message.

  It was time, thought Amanda, to pay a visit to the Earl of Banbridge's townhome. Time to have a tête-à-tête with his daughter. Lady Millicent might be silly and young, but she was yet female, and in cases such as these ‘twas gender and not experience that was likely to be of account.

  Indeed, something told Amanda that Millicent Chambers held the very key to current circumstances. Perhaps she would have some interesting news of her engagement to the duke.

  * * * *

  Benjamin slept from weariness, but found little rest. He was now barred from the side of Lady Pamela and every inch of Marchers was an accusation, every piece of furniture and length of fabric conspired to remind him of what he had lost.

  The duke's bedroom itself might have been slight refuge, for he had selected most of the furnishings himself. But ‘twas not so. The armchairs, thought Benjamin; the chairs where they would sit before the fire, and disc
uss the days affairs, and laugh over the recent foibles of friends and family. The bed where he had hoped to once again hold her in his arms, to sire handsome sons and beautiful daughters.

  Lady Pamela's daughters.

  He awoke late that next morning, and wandered restlessly from room to room, eventually settling in his study, where the day's first letters awaited his reply. The ever-present, unending London mail. The duke swept the envelopes from his desk with an angry movement. They fell to the floor in a small jumble, followed by his book of accounts, a trio of newly-sharpened pens, and-with a clatter-the ink pot.

  The pot tipped, and ink spilled onto the carpet in a slowly widening blotch.

  "Damn!” said the duke. Falling to his knees, he mopped futilely at the ink with his handkerchief.

  "Milord?” Mrs. Throckmorton possessed an uncanny instinct for trouble, especially trouble involving dirt or stains of any kind. She opened the door to his study and peeked in.

  "Oh, no, milord! Leave it be."

  He was smearing the ink and making matters worse. Benjamin sat back on his heels with a sigh.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Throckmorton,” he said. “I've left a mess, it seems."

  "Never you mind, milord. ‘Twill be repaired straightaway."

  "Thank you—"

  "Now, I've left a pot of tea just outside the door, an’ some scones. You've not eaten breakfast, nor your supper last night, and I'll not have a hungry lordship in my house."

  "Yes, of course, Mrs. Throckmorton. Thank you.” She closed the door and the duke chuckled despite himself. The Marchers’ household had rallied around its master since the debacle of the Lincolnshires’ ball, and Benjamin had been the subject of solicitous murmurs for days.

  Even Josiah had kept check on his usual acerbity, mustering only an occasional ‘duke-o’ and once, to Benjamin's amusement, attempting a bow.

  A scratch on the door—

  Mrs. Throckmorton had not trusted to the duke's own sense, it seemed, for a footman now entered the study, bearing a porcelain teapot and a huge tray of scones. The scones were accompanied by a fragrant, still-warm baguette, and pots of butter, marmalade, and a variety of jams.

  "Anything else, milord?” said the footman.

  "No...” Benjamin's mouth was watering. Perhaps he was hungry after all. He applied himself to Cook's delicious repast, and shortly felt much better. He still found himself poor company, of course, but the food had energized his thoughts.

  He had been too acquiescent in this situation, thought Benjamin, too enmeshed in his own part of it to see the whole. ‘Twas nearly a week since the Lincolnshires’ ball. He had allowed others to set the stage, and even poor Lady Millicent had shown better sense than he in the question of their engagement.

  Duty and honour; those he had focused on. Perhaps that was his mistake.

  She sees that we would be unhappy. It had taken the girl a single afternoon's drive in Hyde Park to see it, and to insist something be done. He had told Lady Millicent he needed time to think matters through, but time would not help them of its own accord. A decision must be made quickly, in fact, as to how Lady Millicent's circumstances might be improved. The girl was hostage to her father's poor judgement, and the duke had only a short time to effect some assistance. Once their engagement was publicly broken, she would again be at the mercy of the earl.

  Who would not hesitate, as the duke believed, to send her straight on to Lord Castlereaugh.

  Benjamin needed some means to extract Milly once and for all from the Banbridge household, some place for her to live. But he had no idea as to how this might be arranged. What did one do with a young, high-caste female? A young gentleman could be sent on a tour of the continent, or up to Oxford, or even-as Benjamin was himself-to the new American states. But society offered little for Lady Millicent short of marriage, and employment was truly out of the question, whatever her fancies about becoming a governess.

  Where could she be sent? The earl would not willingly relinquish his legal status as the girl's guardian, or give up his hopes of using Millicent as an asset to be sold—

  "Your grace?"

  The duke's man-of-affairs, Terence McDevitt, poked his head into the study.

  "Ah, just the man I've been waiting to see,” said Benjamin, glad for the respite from his present thoughts, from obstacles he saw no way to circumvent. He had instructed McDevitt to find out what he could of Lord Chambers's finances; perhaps the man had something to report. Money, and debts, and responsibilities-those were subjects a gentleman could understand. Benjamin would welcome a conversation that involved nothing of the finer emotions, most particularly love.

  He was not disappointed.

  "Lord Chambers is in Dun street everywhere,” began Mr. McDevitt, explaining that the earl owed money to a large number of the London merchants. “Some have cut him off, but news of the engagement will change all that."

  Even more reason, realized the duke, to act quickly. ‘Twould be unfair to raise hopes in the storekeepers, to encourage them to extend the man's credit.

  "And there are two or three larger sums owing to banks,” added his man-of-affairs.

  "With no plans for repayment? What about the family estate?"

  "The Banbridge country home in Derbyshire is mortgaged and let,” said McDevitt. “The earl could never afford its upkeep, even if he convinced his creditors to forego the rents."

  "So the family must remain in town?"

  "So it seems."

  "Pah,” said the duke.

  "Still,” said Mr. McDevitt, “when one considers the-ah-assistance Lord Chambers has requested from your grace, the numbers don't add up. His town creditors could be paid off with half the sum. He has yet some income from what remains of the countess's dowry, and with the proper economies the earl should have been able to survive, albeit less grandly, on his own."

  "One would think."

  Benjamin dismissed the man with thanks, but remained in his study, a last scone in hand. Some piece of the picture was missing. The settlements he had offered to Lord Chambers three days ago-or was it four?-were enough to satisfy the earl's obvious indebtedness, as McDevitt had just confirmed. But the man had insisted on more, and been so vehement on that point that the duke was inclined to think that his desperation was real.

  Yes, something was missing, but Lord Torrance thought he knew just the person to suss out the remainder of the problem. He rang for Josiah.

  * * * *

  While the duke focused, gratefully, on matters of mere money, Lady Detweiler ventured a visit to the townhome of the Earl of Banbridge. Lady Millicent was pleased to have such a distinguished caller, although initially mystified as to Amanda's purpose.

  The duke? Yes, said Millicent, the Duke of Grentham was indeed her fiancé, the announcement had gone to the papers days ago-but she had seemed oddly hesitant on this point.

  How marvelous, drawled Lady Detweiler.

  Lady Millicent was far too young, and too honest, to be a match for Amanda's skillful probing. The first cracks in Milly's narrative appeared before the tea arrived, and an hour later, after many tears and even a bit of laughter, Lady Detweiler was possessed of the entire story.

  Millicent had been in love with Lord Peabody, but she hated him now.

  She didn't hate the duke, whom she thought the most handsome man in London, but she would not marry him, either, as he loved Lady Pamela Sinclair.

  Amanda's eyebrows rose.

  Milly's father was a cold, uncaring man, and her mother seemed even less interested in the daughter's life than the earl. Millicent had thought she respected them both, but now she could not be sure. Annabelle had said that the earl could be sent to prison for his debts. She did not want him imprisoned, of course—

  "Hmm,” said Amanda.

  -but she was convinced some way would be found around that difficulty. Earls were simply not thrown in jail.

  And Lord Castlereaugh was a .. a pig.

  Lady Detweiler was pleased, on the
whole. Millicent was more intelligent and less spoiled than she had cause to hope, considering the chit's upbringing and the crass behavior of her parents. She had even, somehow, managed a tolerable education. Millicent's languages were exceptional, her Italian the equal of Lady Pamela's French.

  A gentleman would be lucky, thought Amanda, to win the young woman's affections and her hand as a wife. Any gentleman but the duke.

  As for the girl's father—

  Lady Detweiler did not bother to disabuse Millicent of her notions of English justice. ‘Twas true, as the chit's friend had said, that an earl should not be sent to debtor's prison. But the rule was general, and its specific application might depend on other factors.

  The enemies one had made, for example. If she was Lord Chambers, thought Amanda, she would not like to take the chance. Even short of prison, life could be exceedingly unpleasant for a nobleman whose credit had disappeared.

  Pah. The earl could be drawn and quartered for all Amanda cared, but she did not want Millicent to believe it possible, nor to change her mind about marrying the duke. Something could be done about the earl's criminal stupidity later.

  "Why can't women be allowed time?” was Lady Millicent's final complaint. “Why must we move from our parents’ home to our husband's, with never a moment of relief? We never get to go anywhere! We never get to see anything!"

  Lady Detweiler had nodded in sympathy.

  You are quite correct about the duke and Lady Pamela, she told the girl. Now, we need a plan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Josiah had not taken long to discover the balance of the earl's problem. He returned from a round of the local public houses late that same evening and went directly, albeit tipsily, to see the duke. He discovered Benjamin in the music room, sitting at the pianoforte, from which dreadful noises were emerging. Not unlike the bleating of a lamb caught in the jaws of a wolf, thought Josiah. Lord Torrance had recently purchased several books of instruction for the instrument and was spending hours in practice. Josiah assumed the attempt was to re-create Lady Pamela's presence, but it was sadly futile, as the valet was now painfully aware.