Lady Pamela

by Amy Lake

  The footman had returned hours ago from Hillsleigh, without a reply from Lady Pamela. And there had been no word since. Had his letter been unclear? Benjamin thought back over his words. Too short! he realized. He had dared not mention carte blanche, but he should have said something of his feelings, he should have made apologies—

  Why had she not replied?

  Perhaps he should visit Hillsleigh in person. Would this be too forward? Would she be expecting his call? Was she waiting anxiously, even now, to greet him?

  "Damn, damn, damn,” the duke muttered, the words marking time with his footsteps. He had rushed in before, had spoken before thinking, and it had turned out ill. He must be more careful, this time. ‘Twas his chance to do the thing right.

  Perhaps another brief note, decided Benjamin, searching for a suitable pretext. He composed the letter in his mind as he continued to pace.

  Would my lady care to join me for a drive this afternoon?

  No—Tomorrow afternoon?

  Will my lady be free for tea-?

  Or, perhaps—The draperies for the second and third guest suite have arrived. The colour is not as we had hoped—

  Pah, thought Benjamin. The only question he truly wished to ask Lady Pamela had nothing to do with tea or draperies. He could not rest until he knew that her answer had changed, but he could not ask for the lady's hand in marriage without again seeing her face to face.

  The duke's second communication, the single survivor of numerous vellum sheets crumpled and thrown into the library fire, was addressed, sealed, and at Lady Pamela's doorstep within the hour. This letter met the same fate as the first.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lady Detweiler and Millicent set off on their grand tour the very next day. Amanda had no faith in the earl's common sense. He had accepted the duke's offer, but she still feared Lord Chambers might show up at her doorstep momentarily, breathing fire and demanding his daughter's return.

  His demands would fail, of course, as ‘twould take more than a burly footman or two to get past Amanda's butler. Still, Lady Detweiler disliked scenes, especially scenes in which her legal footing was shaky. Best not to tempt fate.

  And so, after issuing a flurry of orders to her housekeeper, and arranging for a number of trunks to follow, and again assuring Millicent that shopping for a new wardrobe was their first order of business in Paris, the two women left London in a fine barouche. Amanda felt confident that she could leave all other matters to the duke, and she expected early news of his forthcoming marriage to Lady Pamela.

  Although—Perhaps their betrothal would not be formally announced, thought Lady Detweiler. The papers had only just received notice of the end of Lord Torrance's engagement to Lady Millicent, after all. The duke would undoubtedly allow a discreet amount of time to pass, for the sake of his own honour and Milly's reputation.

  As for the wedding itself, Amanda would be sorry to miss it, and the loss of Lady Pamela's company during the months to come. But ‘twas always so when marriage intervened, and Amanda could not wish matters otherwise. She had believed, since the day Lord Torrance arrived in Bedfordshire, that Lady Pamela's destiny was to become the Duke of Grentham's bride. One did not argue with such fate.

  "Oh! Oh, Lady Detweiler, look! A hay rack!"

  Lady Millicent, to Amanda's horror, had rarely traveled beyond the outskirts of London, and the commonplace sights of the countryside were as exotic to her as the glories of India. Milly spent the trip to Dover in high, chattering alt, and Lady Detweiler, reclining against the cushions, was occasionally driven to feign sleep.

  * * * *

  Two days passed in silence.

  Lady Pamela, expecting to hear from Lord Torrance at any moment, suspended packing for Bedfordshire. But still he did not come.

  She understood that the duke might hesitate to call after their last encounter. She did not expect him to rush to her doorstep and throw himself at her feet, after she had told him she never wished to see or hear from him again.

  Had he taken her at her word? Did he now hold her in disgust? But Lady Millicent had seen that the duke loved her, had noticed it at once, and Lady Pamela wanted to believe it was still true.

  He loves me. That has not changed. Surely he will write.

  Amanda had chided her for thinking the duke's words in Green Park had implied carte blanche.

  "You've known the man for months. Has anything he's ever done, anything he's ever said, made you think he would treat either you or Lady Millicent in such a manner?"

  Millicent, answering for herself, had shaken her head in emphatic denial, and Pamela was feeling badly enough about her own behavior to find this annoying.

  "No, but—"

  "I have explained everything, both to his grace and now to you. You've been walking circles around each other. I will give you leave to be less than clear-headed in the man's presence,” added Amanda. “But enough. ‘Twas a mistake, ‘tis over."

  "I can't—"

  "Yes,” said Lady Detweiler. “You can."

  That was two days ago. Now Lady Pamela worried that she had waited too long. Perhaps he was waiting for some sign that she truly did wish to hear from him. Perhaps she should send a letter to the duke. Lady Pamela sat down at her writing table and stared at the boxes of fine vellum paper and envelopes, the pens neatly trimmed and laid out for her use. She saw the planchettes of crimson wax, the ancient, battered ring she used as a seal.

  Dear Lord Torrance—

  She managed the greeting and stared a bit longer at the paper before giving up. She would go for a walk in Green Park instead. It was her usual time; perhaps she would chance upon the duke. But the weather was foul, and when she rang for Maggie the maid seemed so out-of-sorts that Lady Pamela abandoned the idea. All the household had been so kind to her of late. She would not force the girl out into the rain.

  Two days.

  That evening Lady Pamela applied herself once again to her wardrobe and, with Maggie's help, finished packing for Luton. A note arrived from Lady Detweiler. She and Lady Millicent were touring Dover before continuing on to France.

  The girl, it seems, has never seen anything so marvelous as the white chalk cliffs. Nor the channel, nor the castle, nor the Roman painted house. I hesitate to think what ecstasies of wonderment I shall be treated to in Paris.

  Still, I must admit to enjoying myself. A naive delight in the world has more to be said for it than one might think.

  Not a word about Lord Torrance, to Pamela's relief. Eventually she would be forced to reveal everything to Lady Detweiler, from the duke's silence in the face of Amanda's explanations, to her own early flight to Bedfordshire. But for now Lady Pam could claim that the letter from Dover had been delayed, and put off a reply.

  * * * *

  Benjamin's patience was threadbare. He could wait no longer. He wrote a third letter and this time delivered it himself, after first visiting Green Park-in the rain, and getting soaked for his efforts-to make sure she was not out for a walk.

  Hillsleigh was shuttered, and seemed to brood. Lady Pamela's under-butler stared at the duke. Was that a hint of coldness in the man's eye? Benjamin realized that the house servants might have reason to think badly of him, but all it would take was a moment alone with Pam to unsnarl the knots he had made-they had both made-out of their relationship.

  "I'd prefer to give this to Lady Pamela myself,” said Lord Torrance.

  "Her ladyship is not at home,” said the under-butler. ‘Twas a standard excuse, the acceptable way of asking a caller to return at a more convenient time.

  "If you would be so kind,” insisted Benjamin. “Please ask Lady Pamela if she will see the Duke of Grentham.” He disliked standing on title, but the under-butler looked as if he would not move aside.

  "Her ladyship is not at home,” the man repeated. He held out his hand for the letter.

  Benjamin began to feel foolish. He could remain on the doorstep and shout “Pamela, Pamela,” like a moonstruck calf. He
could force his way inside, and add ‘callous brute’ to Lady Pam's reasons to be wary of him.

  Or he could hand his letter to the under-butler and walk away.

  * * * *

  Lady Pamela relaxed into the plump cushions of the marquess's carriage and closed her eyes, sighing, as the coachman turned from Tottenham Court onto Hampstead Road, and the bustle and clamour of London fell behind.

  Despite Maggie's presence in the carriage, she felt very alone. Amanda was gone, and her brother would not be arriving in Luton for weeks. Lady Pam would have ample time for solitary reflection in Bedfordshire, although her niece and nephew, so Jonathan said, would arrive soon after their aunt. Alice and Peter-now eight, and five and a half years old, respectively-would be a welcome distraction.

  Luton Court was full of memories of the duke. Pamela's first sight of him, tall and fair-haired, on the manor house doorstep. The sapphire ring, the Grentham ring, which she was wearing by mischance. The occasion of their first waltz, in the Luton Court ballroom. Their first kiss, and—

  Another sigh, and Pam turned her attention to the landscape out her coach window. She watched as the countryside passed her by in an ever-changing scene, cloaked in the rich colours of late autumn. Cottages dotted the peaceful hills of Hertfordshire; she saw plumes of smoke rising from many.

  The coachman stopped once to change teams, but Lady Pamela did not request any further delays. They had set out from London at mid-morning, but the days were short and dawdling would not serve if they were to reach Luton before twilight turned to nightfall.

  A few flakes of snow drifted past the windows of the coach. Lady Pamela's eyelids grew heavy as the day wore on, even as the dusting of snow threw the fields and woods that they passed into sparkling relief. Perhaps she slept. Benjamin sat next to her, and she laid her head in his lap. He stroked her hair and murmured words of comfort.

  Come live with me, and be my love,

  And we will all the pleasures prove—

  "But you are no shepherd,” whispered Pamela.

  "No..."

  Benjamin's voice faded, and his touch was gone. Lady Pamela's eyes opened and she straightened against the seat, smoothing her skirts. Fortunately Maggie had slept as well, as did not see her mistress's blush. Dreaming of Lord Torrance! What nonsense.

  Then live with me, and be my love.

  She had lived with a man. As for the rest—

  Did she regret her years spent as paramour to the Earl of Ketrick? Should she regret them?

  Edward Tremayne had become a part of Lady Pamela's life shortly after the death of her mother and father. The Marquess and Marchioness of Luton had died within nine months of each other, leaving Pam and her brother Jonathan, the new marquess, a legacy of arguments, betrayal, and pain. Their mother was a creature of society. Appearance was all that mattered to Lady Sinclair, and every extra moment, every ounce of effort the marchioness possessed was expended on society's behalf. She had little affection for her children and even less for their father.

  Her father ... The marquess had been driven away, perhaps, by his wife's demands for ever more extravagant jewelry, finer gowns, more resplendent carriages; anything that would raise her status in the haut ton. He had found solace in the arms of willing females, each, in succession, somewhat more déclassée than the one preceding. The marchioness had been delighted when Lord Sinclair's current inamorata was the wife of an earl with high standing in the government, and acquiescent when she was the widow of a viscount. But when the marquess had taken up with an actress-

  Then, the marchioness cried foul at her ill-use, and the cycle of strident and sometimes violent arguments began, until each day in her parents’ presence was a trial, and Lady Pamela spent more and more time in the company of Lady Detweiler and fine society. ‘Twas then, at one of Lady Pemberley's literary salons, that she had first been introduced to the Earl of Ketrick, and later-when the death of her parents had filled the Sinclair townhome with an unaccustomed, almost eerie quiet-that she saw him again, and then again, until his presence in her life became a given.

  Lady Pamela would not blame her parents for the mistakes she had made. Still, Lord Tremayne had been a relief, an oasis of peace after the loss of her mother and father, a loss that she sometimes felt she should more regret. And she had not wished for marriage, for she had seen a marriage between two people who had never been truly in love. She had enjoyed the Earl of Ketrick's friendship, and shared his bed, and their affection for each other was a cool balm to her soul. Her soul had wished for nothing more.

  Anything was preferable to the complications of marriage.

  Not that Lord Tremayne was unfeeling. He had been a passionate lover, and as like to lose his temper as any gentleman she had met. Still, Edward had never been cross with her. Their association had lasted for three years, and at no time had he ever berated her. They'd had no reason, ever, to exchange jealous accusations, or to engage in nasty scenes. And although they were not married, she'd had no reason to fear Edward's betrayal.

  We never cared enough, thought Lady Pamela. Never loved each other enough to be angry or afraid.

  If she regretted the years with the Earl of Ketrick, perhaps it was only this that she rued. That she had never cared enough.

  * * * *

  For the moment, Benjamin sent nothing more to Hillsleigh. He had not given up hope of speaking with Lady Pamela, but her continued silence bade him, as he thought, to be patient. He had time. Time for patience, and for her to forget the pain of their latest misunderstanding. Benjamin had waited months, in Wiltshire, to see her again. He could wait another week or two to before plaguing her with more letters.

  But the duke was still at odds with his own thoughts and too restless to remain at home. He had lately chosen to avoid society events, spending his afternoons in Green Park, whatever the weather, and his evenings at White's. The renovation of Marchers had previously left him little time to visit St. James's Street, but Marchers was now complete, and yet empty, and he found the club a pleasant distraction. A man could read privately or talk all night with one or any number of jolly fellows, as he wished.

  On this night White's was crowded and lively, filled with smoke and the raucous conversation of gentlemen in various stages of inebriation. The duke sank into an armchair and called for a bottle of brandy. The first glass was drained quickly, and the second vanished with equal speed. Benjamin began to feel much better. ‘Twas as if a voice had filled his mind, shouting, and that voice had finally ceased. He seemed to be thinking rationally for the first time in days.

  Why had she not replied to his letters? Why had she continued to shun him, knowing that it had all been a misunderstanding? ‘Twas most unfair, Benjamin decided.

  A heated argument broke out among a group of the younger men, followed by a brief scuffle. Scuffles were not permitted in White's, and the combatants were escorted into the street. Benjamin considered following them outside, thinking that a good fight would be just the thing. Of even temper most days, tonight he felt he would enjoying smashing his fists against something solid.

  She would not speak to him. Was he not allowed to make a single mistake, to speak a single thought without worrying that she might take offense? Unfair, indeed.

  "Grentham! As I live and breath it is you.” The voice was familiar, and brought a stab of pain that the duke was at first unable to identify. “I would have wagered deep that you'd left London."

  Jonathan Sinclair. Of course. Lady Pamela's brother, the two voices quite different and yet the same, sharing some subtle cadence of speech.

  "Luton,” said the duke, lifting his glass of port. He would not blame the brother for his sister's intransigence. “Your health. You are still in town as well, I see."

  The Sinclair family and friends, including Lady Pamela and Lady Detweiler, spent the Christmas holidays at the Luton estate in Bedfordshire. The last months-long houseparty at Luton Court had culminated in the marriage of Benjamin's young cousin Helène to Lord
Charles Quentin. And ‘twas at Luton Court, last February, that Benjamin had met Lady Pam.

  "Lady Sinclair and I leave shortly,” said the marquess. “By week's end Celia will have acquired most of the gowns in London and be ready, one hopes, for a respite from the shops."

  Benjamin had not seen much of the marquess in town; the two men did not know each other well enough to seek each other's company. But perhaps Jonathan had some news of his sister. Benjamin would not admit to himself that this was his aim, and he was deep enough in his cups not to worry about what Lord Sinclair might think.

  "The others of your party,” said the duke, “they follow you to Luton?"

  An innocuous question, thought Benjamin, but the marquess frowned in surprise.

  "M’ sister's already there, old man,” he replied. “Thought you knew."

  His sister. Already at Luton. Benjamin's head was swimming in brandy; he understood the words, but could not follow the marquess's logic. How could Lady Pamela be in Bedfordshire if she was here, in London, refusing to speak with him?

  "She's gone-?"

  "Took Maggie and a footman just the other day,” added Jonathan. “Earlier than usual, but Amanda's off to Paris, you know, with some earl's chit, and I suppose—” The marquess broke off, still frowning. “'Twas why I didn't expect..."

  He trailed off again.

  The duke's head was suddenly clear. He bade Jonathan a pleasant trip to Bedfordshire, and left White's. Returning to Marchers, Benjamin slept for a few hours, deeply and at peace. In the morning he went again to his study, where he composed a final letter to Lady Pamela. Writing only her name on the envelope, he enclosed it in a larger envelope, which he addressed to the Marquess of Luton.

  The duke rang for a footman. Peter, when he arrived, looked dubiously at the letter in his lordship's hands.

  "Hillsleigh?” queried Peter.

  "No,” said the duke. “Take this to the Marquess of Luton's home, on Upper Brook Street."

  * * * *

  Lady Pamela's first days at Luton Court were, as always, spent in a flurry of estate business. Lord Sinclair's steward had been forewarned of her early arrival and was prepared with a list of needed maintenance and repairs, together with a variety of tenant queries. The list was somewhat longer than usual, and gave Pamela something to occupy her mind.