“He has no title.”
“He’ll earn one. I’ll see to it. Furthermore, his family background is suitable. He’s related to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and his mother was Marlborough’s second cousin,” he responded dutifully, as if he’d anticipated this topic.
Lady Evans was unimpressed. “But the man has no prospects beyond being a banker.”
“Beatrice, I’m a banker.”
“You are a member of the Court of Directors.”
“Grant Morgan has one of the sharpest minds in England today,” Sir Cecil said. “If it weren’t for his father’s almost legendary reputation as a blackguard, Grant wouldn’t be at the bank but would be building a powerful political career. The man’s got the brains to be prime minister, if he had a care to, but instead he works for the Bank of England and does a jolly good job of it, too! Even the Court’s governor acknowledges that he is one of the best.”
His impassioned defense apparently didn’t sway Lady Evans. “Miranda can do better. Lord Phipps has been paying particular attention to her. He is eminently eligible, is connected to the War Office, and has an income of five thousand a year.”
“Grant will marry Miranda, Beatrice—”
“No! Absolutely not. She can bring in Lord Phipps. I know it.”
There was a long silence. Phadra could imagine Lady Evans defiantly staring down her husband. She had no doubt that Lady Evans won every argument between the two—and that meant her problems were solved. She felt a surge of elation. Lady Evans would succeed where she had not.
Perhaps she should see if she could enlist Lady Evans’s help in mounting a search for her father.
She smiled in happy anticipation. Any second now, Sir Cecil would open the door and announce that Phadra would not be welcome in his home. She started to nudge Henny to wake her—and then Sir Cecil’s next words stopped her with her elbow in midair.
“Beatrice,” he said in a voice that vibrated with great import, “I believe there are a few home truths you must understand.”
Those were the last words Phadra heard. No matter how hard she strained, she couldn’t hear another word that passed between the two without actually getting up from her chair and putting her ear to the keyhole—and she wasn’t about to do that. Not with the footman standing present.
Sir Cecil was doing most of the talking. She could hear his low, serious mumbling. Obviously he’d decided to make a clean breast of the matter and confess the story of the Abbott emeralds to his wife.
All she heard of Lady Evans’s resonant voice were loud gasps and stifled cries. At one point Sir Cecil rang for a maid, who went in and out of the room and returned again holding her lady’s hartshorn. Phadra couldn’t picture Lady Evans swooning, but the maid acted very concerned.
At long last the door slowly opened. This time Phadra did elbow Henny, who came awake with a snort. Lady Evans stood in the doorway, looking down on them, her lips pursed as if she’d just taken a bad-tasting physic.
Refusing to be intimidated, Phadra rose to her feet.
The two women faced each other, while Sir Cecil hovered anxiously behind his wife and Henny rubbed her eyes. Lady Evans spoke first, her eyes cold and uninviting. “Welcome to Evans House, my dear. I’ll show you to your room.”
Phadra’s heart sank to her feet.
She was trapped.
Lady Evans sent for the housekeeper, Mrs. Mullins, and ordered her to see to a room for Henny. Mrs. Mullins bobbed a curtsey and led Henny down the hall. Lady Evans then turned to Phadra. “Follow me.”
The footman picked up Phadra’s bag and waited respectfully for her to follow his mistress. Phadra discovered she had no choice but to trail after Lady Evans feeling like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. The bells on her toes didn’t sound so merry now, especially when Lady Evans paused on the first step of the staircase and looked over her shoulder at Phadra. “Bells will never do.” Her words had the ring of an official edict.
Lady Evans turned and started climbing the steps. “Tomorrow, first thing, we will go to the dressmaker for decent clothing and to the cobbler for decent shoes. I do not expect to see you attired in such outlandish costumes ever again. Marrying you off is going to be hard enough as it is. Do I make myself plain?”
Phadra refused to answer. She might have to suffer Lady Evans’s tyranny, but she’d be a mutinous pupil—at least until she thought of a way out of these impossible circumstances. Instead she asked, “Where is Henny’s room?”
Lady Evans paused before one of the doorways in the wide, elegant hallway. “In the servants’ quarters.”
“But she isn’t a servant.”
“She is in this house,” Lady Evans countered, and, turning the door handle, opened the door and stepped into the room.
Fighting the urge to turn on her heel and run, Phadra followed her hostess into the bedroom. The room was appointed in bland shades of blue. Phadra was conscious of how vivid her purple tunic dress must look against such a background.
“Put her valise on the table,” Lady Evans instructed the footman, who dutifully did as he was told and then bowed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Phadra turned her attention from the large canopied bed and outdated heavy furniture to find Lady Evans studying her with an unpleasant smile frozen on her lips. Phadra matched the woman’s haughty look.
“I don’t approve of you,” Lady Evans said at last.
“I don’t care if you do or not,” Phadra answered, and had the satisfaction of seeing the woman blink in surprise.
But it didn’t make her feel good. She would much rather get along with Lady Evans than battle with her. However, her years at Miss Agatha’s had taught her the only way to battle a she-cat was to show a few claws of her own.
To Phadra’s relief, Lady Evans’s tone of voice turned more civil. “This room shares a connecting door with Miranda’s room. Who knows? Perhaps the two of you will become friends.”
Not a chance, Phadra thought, and saw her sentiments echoed on Lady Evans’s face.
Lady Evans walked over and rapped on the connecting door before calling out in a silly falsetto, “Miranda darling, may I come in? I have good news for you.”
The door was opened by a maid in a mobcap who bobbed a curtsey as Lady Evans stepped through the door. “Mama?” came a young woman’s voice from inside the room.
Lady Evans beckoned Phadra forward. Entering the room, Phadra found it decorated in a flamboyant style of rose and gold. Rose bed curtains hung from a massive canopy in the center of the room, and three huge armoires stood like silent sentinels around the room’s perimeter. An open one was stuffed with dresses made of gorgeous silks and velvets. Dainty porcelains, perfume flasks, and silver bottles sat on the vanity at which Miranda, a very pretty golden blonde, had been sitting and letting her maid attend to her hair before her mother had interrupted her toilette.
Having seen Sir Cecil’s wealth, and knowing what little she did about fashionable marriages, Phadra found it hard to believe that Miranda had not yet had an offer. The young woman, who must have been just a year or two younger than herself, was all that could be considered perfect in a young society miss.
“Mama,” Miranda said again as she gracefully rose and welcomed her mother with a small hug. “What good news do you have for me?”
“My pet, this is our new houseguest, Miss Phadra Abbott. Your father and I will be introducing her into society.”
Miranda looked from her mother to Phadra. Her wide blue, limpid eyes didn’t miss a thing, Phadra thought, and for the third time that day she was conscious of someone staring at her toes.
Miranda smiled. “Oh, welcome,” she said pleasantly. She turned to her mother. “Was this your news?”
“Did you have a good day?” Lady Evans asked, the smile on her face looking somewhat forced.
“I spent it with Cousin Sophie. She is becoming quite a bore, really.” She rolled her eyes. “She goes on and on about how any day, any mome
nt, she is expecting an offer. She’s certain that Dangerfield is going to ask for her hand. I’ve warned her that she has been out for only a year and shouldn’t have such high hopes, but”—she shrugged her elegant shoulders—“I only say it to be kind. Let’s be honest: Sophie doesn’t have a prayer at all of contracting any alliance, especially one as good as Dangerfield. She’s got those buck teeth, and Dangerfield knows he can do better. You must see her, Phadra. Her two front teeth are very pronounced. Very unattractive,” she finished, giving her own appearance a sweeping glance of approval in the glass over the vanity.
Lady Evans took a very deep breath before surprising Phadra by announcing to everyone in the room, “Well, my good news is that your father has accepted a contract for your hand in marriage.”
Miranda seemed both surprised and delighted. “Lord Phipps has called on Father.” She clapped her hands together. “I’m so happy.”
“Well…no, not exactly,” Lady Evans answered, the lines of her face crinkling with worry. “Oh, dear, Miranda. Perhaps you’d better sit while I tell you this.”
“Tell me what?” The joyful certainty in her daughter’s eyes turned to confusion. “Mama, what’s wrong? Father hasn’t bungled this, has he?”
Lady Evans blanched. “My dear, you are contracted to wed a Mr. Grant Morgan.” Her words came out in a rush. “He’s a gentleman your father knows at the bank.”
Phadra watched the sweet, pleasant expression on Miranda’s face change with the swiftness of rolling storm clouds. “Mr. Grant Morgan? A Mister?” she asked, her voice deceptively calm.
Lady Evans nodded, the salt-and-pepper curls bobbing, her expression tight. “He will present himself shortly to ask formally for your hand.”
Miranda stared as if she hadn’t heard her mother. “My father wants to marry me off to a Mister?” Her voice began increasing in volume. “Didn’t you tell him about Lord Phipps? Didn’t you tell him I had more suitable prospects?”
The maid and Lady Evans stepped back, leaving Phadra standing in the forefront. Phadra wondered briefly why they had done so—until the young woman, in a sudden, rash action, swept all of the glass bottles and pretty things from her vanity with such force that some hit the wall and broke.
“I won’t do it!” she shrieked as the scent of lily of the valley filled the air. “I won’t marry a plain Mister. I want to marry Lord Phipps. Father can’t make me marry a stupid banker. Do you hear?” For emphasis, she crossed over to her bed and with one firm yank of her hand pulled down the bed curtains and flung them with surprising strength at her mother—but it was Phadra who caught them, taking a step back under their weight. Meanwhile Miranda beat her feet in an angry staccato on the India carpet. “I won’t have it! I won’t!” Her pretty face began turning beet red with anger.
A knock at the door interrupted her tirade.
“Who is it?” Miranda shouted, and stood there breathing in great gulps of air.
The footman’s voice trembled slightly as he answered. “I have a message from Lady St. George and Lady Sophie.”
Before anyone in the room could react, a woman’s voice spoke up from the other side of the door, “Beatrice, open up. I have the most incredible news! I can’t wait to tell you.”
Lady Evans’s eyes opened wide with alarm. “It’s Louise and Sophie.”
Miranda immediately snapped out of her tantrum. “What do they want?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” Lady Evans answered. “Quick, let’s get this room cleaned up.” With surprising strength, she swept the bed curtains out of Phadra’s arms and stashed them under the bed. The maid and Miranda picked up the bottles. Miranda pushed her bottles in the maid’s arms and then shoved the woman off into a small room that, Phadra surmised, had to be the water closet.
“Come in,” Lady Evans managed to call out even as the door flew open. In rushed an almost exact copy of Lady Evans, with the same massive bosom. She was followed by a pretty brunette with a pronounced, but not unattractive, overbite.
“I have the most incredible news!” the woman Phadra assumed to be Lady St. George announced.
“Something that couldn’t wait until dinner this evening, Louise?” Lady Evans asked.
“My dear sister. My dear niece,” Lady St. George intoned in a dramatic voice, moving around the room to embrace Lady Evans and Miranda. “This news is so important that it must be shared right away. Isn’t that right, Sophie?”
Sophie smiled shyly and didn’t answer. Her mother obviously didn’t expect her to.
Lady St. George started to hug Phadra but stopped herself, startled by her presence. “Do I know you?”
Before Phadra could answer, Lady Evans announced, “She’s our guest. Miss Abbott, this is my sister, Lady St. George, and her daughter Lady Sophie. This is Miss Phadra Abbott, the daughter of Sir Julius Abbott.”
“Oh,” Lady St. George responded without interest. Her gaze traveled from the top of Phadra’s head and her circlet of gold to the tips of her toes. “What an unusual costume, dear. Is it foreign?” Before Phadra could answer, she turned to her sister and declared, “I have news of great import! But first, tell me, who is that incredibly handsome man sitting in your yellow parlor, Beatrice?”
“Handsome man?” Lady Evans was obviously puzzled.
“Yes,” Sophie chimed in, her face flushing with shy excitement. “He’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen the like. We met him when we first arrived, and he’s so tall he practically fills up the doorway.”
There was only one man who matched that description whom Phadra knew and who might also be cooling his heels in Lady Evans’s parlor. “Mr. Morgan,” she whispered to her hostess.
“Morgan?” Lady Evans repeated blankly, and then caught herself. “Ah, yes, Mr. Morgan.” She shot a glance at her daughter, who glared back, her lower lip protruding in a mutinous pout.
Lady Evans evidently thought the time had come to get off the subject of Morgan. “What brings you to visit, Louise?”
Lady St. George smiled, her attention brought back to the purpose of her journey. Clapping her gloved hands together, she announced, “It’s the most marvelous news! Sophie has contracted an alliance.”
“What?” Lady Evans and Miranda asked at the same time.
The fingers of Lady St. George’s hands fluttered to punctuate her words. “An alliance. Lord Dangerfield has come up to scratch and asked for our little Sophie. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“We’re talking about a September wedding.” Lady Sophie added, blushing with happiness.
“I wanted you and Miranda to be the first to hear our happy news,” Lady St. George went on. “Can you imagine, an offer this soon? After all, Sophie has been out only a year, and Miranda has been out—how long has it been? Three years? Well, we never expected Sophie to land such a glorious catch. Imagine, Lord Dangerfield.”
She put a hand to her breast as if so much happiness was overwhelming. “I feel as though there is so much to do, and I don’t even know where to begin. Wait until you go through it, Beatrice. Oh, I know that you’ve gone through a wedding when your son was married, but it is a completely different matter to be the mother of the bride. So much planning. But you’ll find your opportunity soon. After all, Miranda has had three seasons. I’m sure she’ll find a husband soon.” She stopped and sniffed the air. “By the way, this room smells heavenly.”
Lady Evans and Miranda stood frozen, their smiles plastered on their faces.
Lady Evans found her voice first. “Well, what…wonderful…news,” she managed to choke out.
Sophie blushed deeper. “I knew you would be happy for me, Aunt Beatrice.”
“Oh, I am,” Lady Evans said, though she looked as if she was about to cry.
“And you, Miranda?” Sophie turned toward her cousin. “Aren’t you happy for me, too?”
Miaranda looked like she’d rather plunge a knife in her own heart than wish her cousin happiness. For a moment expectancy hung in the air. Phadra feared they were abou
t to have a repeat of Miranda’s tantrum and realized that her mother feared the same thing.
Miranda looked at her mother and then at Phadra. Her frown, so much like her father’s, grew deeper.
Phadra held her breath.
The frown flattened—and then slowly turned into a dazzling smile. “Of course I am happy for you, cousin,” Miranda said, her smile now as lovely and pleasant as a summer day. Lady Evans gave an audible sigh of relief that turned to a gasp of surprise as Miranda went on, “And you can be happy for me, too.”
“We can?” Lady St. George asked, caught off guard.
“Why, yes,” Miranda responded. “Mother, haven’t you told Aunt Louise?”
“Told her what?” Lady Evans asked blankly.
“About my offer,” Miranda said in a low, slightly angry tone.
It took Lady Evans a second to understand. When she did, her puzzled expression curled up into a smile. “Yes. Oh, yes, you need to wish Miranda happiness, Louise!”
“I do? Whatever for?”
Lady Evans smiled. She crossed to stand next to her daughter. Their arms linked in an unspoken bond. “Remember that glorious man in my yellow parlor?”
“He’d be hard to forget,” Lady St. George said with a sly smile.
“He is Miranda’s fiancé.”
Lady Miranda and Mr. Morgan spent fifteen minutes together in the yellow parlor. Everyone in the household, including Phadra and Henny, lined up in the hallway outside.
At last the door opened and Mr. Morgan walked out with a blushing Miranda on his arm. They looked the perfect couple with his dark masculine looks and her cool golden blondness. He announced ceremoniously that Lady Miranda had made him “the happiest man in London” by accepting his proposal of marriage.
Miranda lowered her eyes demurely. “You are very kind to say so, Grant.”
Grant. Phadra thought his Christian name sounded strange on Miranda’s lips.
The servants clapped while Lady Evans and Lady St. George embraced each other and wept. However, a few minutes later, Lady St. George pointed out to her daughter in a carrying voice, “He doesn’t have a title.”
Treasured Vows Page 3
