Allison Lane

by A Bird in Hand

  “Quite.” His lips twitched suspiciously. “But Crossbridge nearly suffered a fatal apoplexy when the cover fell out of his cloak in Lady Beatrice’s drawing room, which he will never forgive.”

  “No one was injured and no damage was done. You must have left within the day if you think it hurt Sedge’s reputation. Granted, Lady Beatrice was highly critical at the time, but her pretended pique sought to discourage the cubs from emulating the feat. Sedge is too beloved to suffer for the deed.”

  “True, I did leave immediately and haven’t returned. And his credit has always been remarkable. He gets away with doing and saying things that would ostracize a lesser man.”

  Randolph shook his head, though it was true enough. “Let us deal with Sedge later. His credit is of no use at the moment, for revealing it will only encourage Cecilia. If we are to escape the present imbroglio, we had best meet as strangers. You do not know Symington. And you certainly do not know his distant cousin Randolph. Since we are all eschewing London, there is little reason to have met.”

  “I was on my way to Ravenswood now. Will you join me?”

  “Not just yet. I’ve an errand in the village. Sedge is holed up in his room, having suffered a relapse yesterday. He must appear at dinner tonight, though. Can you wangle an invitation? The more people at table, the easier it will be to prick Cecilia’s notions.”

  “Lady Fosdale will invite me. She always does when I’ve been away any time.”

  “You seem less angry about Cecilia than I would have expected,” Randolph dared. Though they had never been close, he had always liked the baronet. And they would likely become brothers-in-law by summer.

  Lewis frowned. “It hurts,” he admitted. “But I do not want an unwilling wife. Despite her age, Cecilia is still a credulous child, for she has had no opportunity to learn the ways of the world. Facing reality will be good for her. Once she learns to distinguish fact from fantasy, we can decide if she will make me a good wife.”

  Randolph nodded. “Fosdale is determined to fetch a special license. If I convince him to send Symington’s secretary, can you put the fellow up for a few days?”

  “Gladly.”

  * * * *

  Elizabeth was the first to arrive in the drawing room that evening. She had nearly cried off after learning that Sir Lewis would be there. Cecilia’s betrothal was a deliberate cut, since Fosdale had already accepted Lewis’s own offer. Embarrassment would make it difficult to face him.

  But Mr. Randolph had urged her to join them. Time was running out. They had to discredit Cecilia’s image of London if they were to free Symington. That goal was more important than any discomfort over Cecilia’s plots.

  And there would be discomfort. Cecilia had reacted to the news of Sir Lewis’s return by embellishing her most elegant gown. She was determined to flaunt her new status.

  “Lord Symington, Mr. Randolph,” she said in greeting when they arrived in the drawing room.

  It was the first time she had seen Symington since setting his arm. Even with the sling, he made an imposing figure, taller and broader than he had initially appeared, and aristocratic to the bone. She could understand Cecilia’s glee. He was handsome as sin, despite his fading bruises, and dominated the room without uttering a word.

  She shivered. How could anyone feel comfortable around him? His hauteur was enough to put her back up even before he opened his mouth. She hated men who wielded quizzing glasses.

  At least Mr. Randolph made a comfortable companion, though even he looked more imposing this evening. The arrival of the baggage coach had reunited him with his luggage, so he was no longer wearing that familiar blue jacket. Instead, he had donned an elegant evening coat the color of wine, though it also fit loosely across the shoulders. Had he borrowed one of Symington’s, or was the fit dictated by having no valet?

  Not borrowed, she decided, comparing the two men. Symington was six inches taller and considerably broader, though Mr. Randolph was muscular in his own right. Those solid shoulders had surprised her the first time she had applied the ointment to his injuries, not that they should have. He had demonstrated considerable strength in their struggle against the river.

  But this was no time to be thinking of his bare shoulders. Or the rest of his bare body. It was especially not the time to think of her hands caressing that bare body, stroking across his back, around his chest, down his—

  Warmth flushed her cheeks, intensifying when she realized that Symington was still inspecting her with that dratted quizzing glass.

  Irked, she exchanged innocuous comments with Mr. Randolph, grateful that she had been spared Fosdale’s scheming. A match with a haughty fellow like Symington was unthinkable. Cecilia would do well to consider his character. He was not a man who would cater to a wife’s demands. Lords rarely did, of course, but he seemed harsher than most. And more intense.

  “Sir Lewis,” intoned Wendell from the doorway.

  “How is your mother?” she asked when he had raised her hand for a courtly kiss. His eyes were dark green tonight, so she knew he was suppressing a raging temper. Hardly surprising. He must have heard of Cecilia’s antics by now.

  “Much improved. I left her in the throes of whist with her dearest friends.”

  “That is good news. Lewis, may I present Lord Symington. Sir Lewis Mitchell, my lord.”

  Each bowed stiffly. “You are Whitfield’s heir, I believe,” said Lewis.

  Symington nodded. “And you are Fosdale’s neighbor?”

  Another nod.

  “And this is his cousin, Mr. Randolph,” continued Elizabeth.

  “Randolph.”

  “Sir Lewis.”

  She frowned over the odd expression the two men exchanged, then dismissed it. Symington was making her more nervous than she had thought.

  Cecilia staged her grand entrance, relieving the tension – or adding to it. Lewis’s mouth tightened.

  “Pardon me for keeping you waiting, my lord,” Cecilia said gaily, ignoring Lewis as she floated to Symington’s side, her hand extended.

  “You didn’t.” He ignored her hand, resuming a nonexistent conversation with Mr. Randolph.

  Cecilia flushed.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” said Lewis, stepping into the breach to kiss the outstretched hand. “Allow me to wish you happy.”

  Her smile became even more strained.

  Elizabeth exchanged a satisfied glance with Mr. Randolph. Cecilia was off balance and reeling. The public cut from Symington was bad enough, but discovering that her erstwhile suitor felt no regret made it worse. He was treating her as just another neighbor.

  “Excellent start,” murmured Mr. Randolph as she joined them.

  “Quite.”

  Sir Lewis was drawing Cecilia into talk of his journey.

  “So your mother is completely recovered?” she asked, this time with a genuine smile.

  “Yes, though I cannot say the same for Mrs. Harris,” he said, naming his housekeeper. “Wet weather always affects her lungs.”

  “I hadn’t heard.” She frowned. “I must visit tomorrow. Is anyone else ailing at Little House?”

  They fell into a discussion of his tenants and the damage wrought by the storms in his absence, including several sheep who had drowned when rising water trapped them. Elizabeth led the others to the far side of the room, relaxing a bit, for Cecilia could not hide her genuine interest in Lewis and his dependents.

  “What shall we discuss at dinner?” asked Symington softly. No hint of arrogance remained. “London, the city? Or London society?”

  “The city,” said Mr. Randolph after glancing at her.

  “We will have to raise the subject early,” she warned them, nervous at how he had read her mind so easily. There was an odd connection between them that she couldn’t seem to break. “Fosdale has a penchant for usurping table conversation.”

  They nodded.

  Lord and Lady Fosdale arrived. Wendell immediately announced dinner, preventing
further introductions. Only as Symington escorted her to the dining room did Elizabeth realize that he had yet to meet her mother. Shame over the breach of manners flushed her face.

  “Is it true that you dislike London?” she asked Symington once the first course was served.

  “Don’t be a goose, Elizabeth,” snapped Cecilia, interrupting. “Mr. Randolph was merely jesting, for he is hardly in a position to know anything of the matter.” She tossed him a look of frigid disdain. She was obviously piqued to be seated between him and Lewis, though she took advantage of her position to flutter her lashes at Symington. “Someone of your stature must revel in Town, my lord.”

  “Such quaint notions,” he drawled. “I have been there, of course, but I haven’t stayed more than a week at a time since the year my father introduced me into the clubs. London offends my fastidious nature. Such filth!”

  “The air is appalling,” agreed Lewis. “I visited occasionally during my school days. One can hardly poke one’s nose out the door without being covered with soot.”

  “Yet what can people do?” said Symington with a shrug. “They must eat, which requires cooking fires. My valet despaired of getting my cravats clean. Were I to return, I would undoubtedly lose him.”

  “Cloaks help,” put in Randolph.

  “True, though the cloak itself must then be kept separate from other garments and great care taken to see that the outside never touches the lining. Even a dash to a carriage exposes one to soot. Walking is impossible, of course, and not only because of the air.”

  “Then why?” asked Cecilia, frowning.

  “Horses,” said Lewis succinctly.

  “Horses?” echoed Lady Fosdale.

  “Thousands of horses. Riding horses, carriage horses, dray horses. Even mules and donkeys. All adding their droppings to the streets,” explained Symington. “Walking becomes quite perilous.”

  “As does breathing,” said Randolph. “The last time I passed through Town, I nearly expired from the stench.” He fluttered his serviette under his nose.

  “This is hardly appropriate conversation for the table,” said Lady Fosdale after glancing at her red-faced husband. “You were describing how my brother fares in Carlisle, Sir Lewis. Is it true that my niece is enamored of Mr. Burton?”

  Elizabeth caught Randolph’s eye and smiled as her mother determinedly kept the talk on gossip. His plan was working better than she had expected. Each new comment had etched a line deeper into Cecilia’s forehead.

  When the ladies reached the drawing room, Cecilia sought her out. “Do you think Lord Symington exaggerates?” she asked softly.

  “About London? I doubt it. You know how much soot one fire generates. I hadn’t thought of it myself, but thousands of fires must blacken the city. And the same argument holds for horses.”

  She grimaced. “Actually, I meant about disliking Town.”

  “He seems a man who knows his own mind and who will not alter his course without a very good reason.”

  “But he would do so for love,” she decided.

  “Forget about your effect on the squire’s sons,” she warned sharply. “Lord Symington does not care a whit for you. Why should he? Even if he might have originally been susceptible to your charms, he obviously hates you now. You forced yourself on him, trapping him into a marriage he cannot want. For all you know, he may love someone else.”

  “But Papa said he is looking for a wife.”

  “Fosdale knows nothing of the matter. And in any case, he only said that Symington was unwed. Do not dispute me,” she added as Cecilia opened her mouth. “I overheard that same conversation. Symington may have intended to wed soon, but you have no way of knowing whether he had already chosen his bride. Nor does Fosdale, no matter how he may have twisted facts in his own mind.”

  “He swears that Whitfield expects a betrothal from this visit.” Her eyes flashed.

  “I give leave to doubt it. What duke would press for a suit with a penniless nobody of questionable breeding without even discussing it with Symington? You cannot make a case that the man is unable to find his own bride.”

  “But—”

  “There is no but. Symington’s wealth and prospects alone make him acceptable to the highest sticklers in Society. His looks are an added bonus. Even were he mad, he could find a dozen duke’s daughters who would accept him. So why should he look here? Despite Fosdale’s title, we have no social standing and no fortune to offer a powerful lord. Fosdale is the one who wants this connection. He probably concocted the idea from whole cloth. And after the way you misused the hospitality of this house, you cannot expect Symington to look on you with kindness. In fact, his eyes blaze with contempt whenever he glances in your direction. That cut was deliberate. You will be well served if he locks you in a dungeon and starves you to death.”

  “He wouldn’t dare!” But her face had blanched.

  “I do not know him well enough to say, but no one would stop him. You know that wives have no rights of their own. A husband may do as he pleases, and that includes imprisonment and beating. Why do you think I oppose marriage so strongly? I will not place my person or my reason under the thumb of someone who might take my desires into dislike. Look what happened to Mother. She was just as pretty as you in her youth.”

  “But she was too timid to utilize her looks to advantage.” Cecilia stalked off to talk to Lady Fosdale.

  Elizabeth picked up a book. Conceited fool. The revelations Cecilia had already heard should have given her pause, but she was too sure of her charm to believe them.

  Nearly an hour passed before the gentlemen arrived, but at least Fosdale did not accompany them. Cecilia remained resolute, donning her most flirtatious smile as she approached Symington.

  Mr. Randolph’s greeting kept Elizabeth from overhearing their exchange.

  “I think that went rather well,” he said, drawing her apart from the others. Sir Lewis was deep in conversation with Lady Fosdale.

  “But not well enough.” She shook her head. “Her ideas are more firmly fixed than even I had thought. She is convinced that her charm will win his heart.”

  He groaned.

  “Perhaps I was too firm just now,” she continued. “I pointed out that wives have no rights, leaving them at the mercy of their husbands, who may choose to mistreat them with impunity.”

  “But few actually do so,” he countered. “Most gentlemen deplore brutality.”

  “Beating is not the only way men can mistreat their wives,” she reminded him. “One need look no further than Fosdale. He maliciously denies Mother anything she wants. Not just visiting London, for I realize that such a journey would prove too costly. But he refuses even innocuous requests. She wished to plant flowers near the lake, propagating them from those in the formal gardens. He would not hear of it. She asked to transform an unused bedchamber into a sitting room using furniture from one of the attics – it is smaller than the morning room and easier to heat in winter. He refused.”

  “Do not agitate yourself,” he said soothingly, interrupting the flow of words. “I agree that her situation is unfortunate. In fact, Fosdale would appear to be a tyrant who exercises his power solely to prove that he can. But again, few men follow that course. You cannot judge all mankind by the deeds of a few, just as you cannot condemn the entire estate of marriage because your parents have created a bad one.”

  “Please, don’t—”

  But again he interrupted. “I asked you to search your heart once before. Are you afraid to discover that you reacted to your mother’s unhappiness by turning all men into monsters?”

  “How dare—”

  “Don’t answer now. Let your pique settle, then think about it. I have no quarrel with many of Mary Wollstonecraft’s premises—”

  “How did you know I admired her?”

  “Your philosophy reflects much of her thinking. But marriage is seldom a form of slavery. And even Mary chose to wed in the end – quite happily.”

  Symington’s
voice diverted her attention, and just as well. Mr. Randolph’s ability to read her mind was becoming dangerous. If he suspected that she found him attractive, he would never accept her refusal.

  “You may acquire my name if you insist on taking it,” Symington growled at Cecilia. “But you will get nothing more. I have no obligation beyond setting a roof over my wife’s head – a roof of my own choosing. If you think I will waste a single shilling on a greedy schemer, then you are the stupidest child alive. I despise fortune hunters.”

  Cecilia’s cheeks flamed, and she cast a pleading look at Lewis. He shrugged and returned his attention to Lady Fosdale.

  “But how could you face Society after mistreating a wife?” Cecilia demanded.

  He laughed. “Don’t you listen to anyone but yourself? I care nothing for the opinions of others. But even if I did, no one would care. It is bad ton to interfere in a man’s personal affairs. I can name a dozen lords who beat their wives regularly, but that is not a subject anyone would discuss. Those silly books you read have given you very odd ideas of how the world works. Rank has many privileges, among which is immunity to censure. For example, the Duke of Norfolk is a drunkard whose low behavior encompasses every vice known to man. But he is a close friend of the Regent. And while prudent men might hide their daughters when he appears, he is welcomed everywhere. Now, if you will excuse me, I must retire. My constitution is not yet ready for extensive revelry.”

  He took leave of Sir Lewis and Lady Fosdale, winked at Randolph and Elizabeth, then headed for his room.

  “Why do I get the feeling that he is neither as sedate nor as opposed to London as we are implying?” she murmured as Cecilia joined Sir Lewis.

  Randolph hid a grimace. Elizabeth was sharp enough to sense hidden truths. But he needed to keep the Symington image as real as possible. “Symington has visited Town on several occasions, but he avoids Society and has always preferred the country,” he said carefully. “He likes nothing more than to potter about his library.”