“Lady Palmerton! I have no desire to go to Almack’s.”
“That doesn’t signify,” said his lordship with a smile. “Admittance to Almack’s makes you one of the elite and will help admirably in your placing Betsy.”
With a sigh Louisa was forced to recognize the truth of this statement. “You will accompany us to the Opera and the theater,” continued Lady Constance, happily engrossed in her plans.
Louisa, overwhelmed by visions of costly gowns that would send her accounts ever skyward, sought vainly to stem the lady’s flow of plans.
“You might as well give over the reins,” observed his lordship. And if he noticed her distress, he did not remark further on it. “When Constance has determined to launch someone, they will be launch-ed.”
The dark eyes that regarded her so intently were quite inscrutable. Louisa found herself wishing that she knew what was going on behind them.
The late Viscount Atherton’s debt of honor to Colonel Pickering and Lady Palmerton’s friendship with her Mama seemed alike improbable, something out a novel, Louisa thought. But one could hardly fly in the face of such friendliness. It was not good manners.
Lady Constance was still deep in thought and Louisa endeavoring not to color up under the close scrutiny of his lordship’s eyes, when Aunt Caroline and Harry entered the room, followed by Drimble, carrying tea and macaroons.
“This is my Aunt, Mrs. Pickering,” said Louisa. “Aunt, this is Lord Atherton’s sister, Lady Palmerton.”
Aunt Caroline seemed to take the lady in her stride. “I am most pleased to meet you,” she said, drawing up a chair beside her ladyship and the tea and proceeding to serve it. “Have you an interest in cats?”
Before Louisa could hear Lady Palmer-ton’s reply, Harry spoke. “Betsy’s gone to get Apricot, sir. Like you said. I suppose she’s still too young - Apricot, I mean. But Betsy wants you to see how she’s grown.”
“Thank you. Harry,” said his lordship, bringing a smile to the child’s face. “Is Aunt Julia about?”
Louisa shook her head. “I’m afraid not. She has gone to hear a lecture on phrenology and compare notes with her friends.”
Atherton sighed. “What a shame. I had thought to have her study my sister’s skull. Though perhaps she would have difficulty finding it under all those curls.
Lady Palmerton, deeply engrossed in a conversation on the merits of Persians against those of Manchester cats, did not reply.
“Sir,” asked Harry, the expression on his round face clearly copying that of his idol, “Have you Restrained?”
Atherton chuckled. “I am working on it, Harry, my boy. I am working on it. My destructiveness is well under control. My combativeness? Well, I have engaged in no mills since I saw you last. And my secretiveness - perhaps Aunt made a mistake there.”
“And your amativeness?” asked Betsy, entering the room with a squirming Apricot in her arms.
“That,” said his lordship, with an unfathomable glance at Louisa, “remains to be worked on. Such a quality, you know, bodes well for a man who desires to marry.”
“Oh.” Betsy’s face fell. “I had hoped you would wait for me,” said she. “For you are so like a hero out of a romance that I think you would make an admirable husband.”
Louisa, whose somewhat circuitous discussion with Betsy over amativeness had caused her considerably more discomfort than it had the child, colored up. Pray God, Betsy would not repeat everything her sister had said.
Fortunately, however, Betsy was distracted by his lordship’s chuckle. “I collect that I am too old for you, Betsy my dear. Why, I could almost be your Papa. I am two and thirty, you see.”
Betsy considered this for a moment and then sighed. “I expect you are right. I should not want to be nursing a doddering old gentleman when I am just in my prime.”
“Betsy!” Louisa could not forbear interjecting, “his lordship will not be doddering for some time to come.”
“You are right, Louisa,” said Betsy with a mischievous grin. “But I collect there are other heroes around, perhaps with a few less years. And I shall encounter one of them.”
“Betsy, what did I tell ...” began Louisa and then hesitated.
“About heroes?” asked Betsy airily. “Oh, I quite remember. But how do you expect me to believe such nonsense when his lordship is right there in the flesh disproving it? Now it stands to reason that if one hero exists, others may too.”
And with this firm declaration Betsy put Apricot on the floor. The kitten took one look around, blinked his green eyes, and made a dash for his lordship’s top boots where he attempted to scale the highly polished height of one.
“Oh!” exclaimed Louisa, looking in dismay at the marred boot, the surface of which bore the unmistakable furrows of Apricot’s tiny claws.
Atherton shrugged, his heavy lids falling lazily over his eyes. “Do not distress yourself. Ainsley, my valet, is a whiz at such things. A little champagne in the blacking and all will be well again.”
“Champagne?” Betsy and Harry echoed in unison.
“Of course. Have you not heard that the great Beau Brummell blacks his boots with champagne? It is that which accounts for their high gloss.”
The children, not knowing whether to accept this tale as true or not, both giggled.
Apricot, having exhausted all efforts to climb the insurmountable, scampered away to explore under the furniture.
“Are you still of a mind to give Apricot to me?” asked his lordship of Betsy.
“Oh yes, sir.”
“Good. I imagine he will be old enough in a week or two.”
There was the sound of rending cloth from under a nearby chair. “Perhaps,” said his lordship with a swift glance at Louisa, “perhaps you had better return Apricot to his Mama. Kitten claws are very hard on delicate furniture.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Betsy. And Harry, at a nod from his lordship, hurried after her.
“I see that you are looking well.” His lordship moved his chair somewhat closer to Louisa’s.
“Th - thank you,” she murmured. And then, at a loss for something to say, sat silent.
“I thought you seemed rather amazed to see me,” commented his lordship suddenly.
Louisa, taken by surprise, blurted out, “I was.”
“Did I not tell you that I intended to return?” asked his lordship in a dangerously level tone.
“Yes, but...”
“You will learn that I always do what I say I shall,” said Atherton, his dark eyes locking with hers. “Always.”
“It was only ... That is, I thought ... What should you want with a kitten?” Louisa finally stammered.
“Perhaps I like kittens,” said his lordship. “At any rate, I practically promised the child that I should take one. I should never let a child down.”
Louisa, the red rising to her cheeks, felt that she had misjudged the man. Just because he was every inch an aristocrat and bore himself as a man of the world, just because the black eyes under the heavy lids looked on life with lazy amusement, that did not mean that he was not a man of honor.
“I... I am sorry,” she said humbly. “But I have known few lords.”
“Except in romances,” said the Vis-count, his tone considerably lighter. “I collect there are many lords in their pages.”
“Yes,” agreed Louisa. “But they are not real.”
“What?” His lordship’s dark eyes danced with mischief. “Would you fly in the face of Providence? Surely Betsy’s eyes are no sharper than your own. Can you not recognize in me a hero incarnate?”
Louisa, who found any mention of romances uncomfortable, was saved from blurting out some betraying sentiment by the sudden entrance of Aunt Julia.
“Ah,” said his lordship. “The scientist has arrived. Constance my dear,” he continued as Aunt Julia advanced into the room. “This is Louisa’s Aunt Julia, sister to the late Colonel. Miss Pickering, my sister, Lady Constance Palmerton.”
Aunt J
ulia nodded somewhat diffidently, as though not having time to take from science for such niceties. “I have just heard the most ridiculous lecture,” she observed to the room in general. “The man knew nothing of phrenology.”
Lady Constance, whose knowledge of cats, though quite sufficient before this day, had been rather thoroughly exhausted, looked up with a sigh of relief. “Phrenology?” asked she. “What is that?”
Aunt Julia, with the smile of a hunter keen upon the scent, pushed a chair closer and prepared to initiate a new believer into the mysteries of science.
Louisa, turning back to his lordship, saw his eyes dancing with merriment. “Do not despair,” he said softly. “I warned my dear sister. And so if she has her character dissected not to her liking the fault is entirely her own.”
He glanced toward the window. “Will you take a turn or two with me in the garden?”
Louisa nodded. In her present state she thought she would surely scream should she have to watch Aunt Julia probe under Lady Constance’s artfully arranged curls. Anything was preferable to hearing Aunt Julia insult the Viscount’s friendly sister.
Their departure was not even noticed by the ladies, now deep in a discussion of the vagaries of the male sex and what an obvious help it would be to the female half of the species if they could ascertain these vagaries before it was “too late.”
Louisa, pausing in the hall to gather up her shawl, thought with a slight touch of hysteria, that any moment now Aunt Caroline would offer her cats as subjects of study and Aunt Julia would agree!
As they descended the steps into the little courtyard, Louisa drew in a deep breath. At least out here she would be spared the embarrassment of her peculiar relatives.
Quietly Atherton took her shawl from her arm and placed it around her shoulders. “Thank you,” said Louisa with a shy smile as he offered her his arm. For a few moments they ambled among the flowers in comfortable silence. Louisa felt a sort of calm peacefulness descend on her as they strolled. How very pleasant it would be, she found herself thinking, to stroll this way often, with Atherton at her side.
This thought, however, soon shattered her calm. It was unwise to think such thoughts, unwise ever to regard his lordship through the sensibilities of a heroine. Such actions could only lead to heartache for the portionless daughter of a dead baron.
“I hope,” said Atherton after a little while, “that you will not refuse my sister’s kindness. She is, perhaps, a little before herself. She does dearly desire to design someone’s entrance into the ton. And at times she can be a mite feather-headed, but she is a good soul nevertheless. And she does feel this obligation to your Mama.”
At this last, Louisa scrutinized his lordship’s face sharply. But if Lady Constance’s friendship with Mama was a made-up one, his lordship’s demeanor gave no sign of it. It seemed, thought Louisa, as though she had no choice but to give herself into Lady Palmerton’s capable hands.
“Do you think it wise,” asked his lordship suddenly, “to endeavor to persuade Betsy that romance does not exist?”
“I ... I am only trying to protect her,” faltered Louisa. “Young, innocent girls can be very badly hurt.”
“So they can,” agreed Atherton. “Have you been so hurt?”
His dark eyes fastened so suddenly on her own seemed to take her breath away.
“No, no,” she stammered. “I ... I have not been hurt. I have known few men.”
“That perhaps explains it,” said his lordship speculatively. “But is not your approach to life - the belief that no heroes exist - perhaps as detrimental to a girl as the belief that the world abounds with them? Would not a happy medium perhaps be a wiser choice?”
“I ... I do not know.” Louisa felt all her convictions being shaken. For years she had written romances, quite set in the thought that heroes never had and never would exist. But, confronted by one in the flesh, how could she deny their existence?
“I wish you may at least consider the possibility that heroes exist,” his lordship continued. “Unless , of course, you mean for Betsy to go off to the highest bidder.”
“What!” Louisa drew away from him in outrage. “How dare you say such a thing! I only want Betsy to be loved and cared for.”
“And for that she needs a husband,” added the Viscount gently. “Nor will it hurt her, in acquiring one, to have a little faith in heroes.”
“I ... I shall think about it,” Louisa found herself saying. “Perhaps you are right.”
Atherton bent to pick several marigolds and offer them to her. “They complement your hair,” he said with a grave smile, reaching out to touch a truant curl.
Louisa accepted the golden flowers and sniffed their slightly bitter fragrance. “I love marigolds. They were Mama’s favorite flowers.”
“Then I made a wise choice,” said Atherton again tucking her arm through his.
“Have your read Lady Incognita’s latest romance?” he asked. “Love in Peril I believe it is called.”
“Yes, I have read it,” replied Louisa.
“As I recall,” said his lordship, gazing at the flowers in her hand, “marigolds were that heroine’s favorite flower.”
“Yes,” murmured Louisa. “I believe they
were.”
“Do you not find it unusual that the heroine should have the same preference in flowers as you do?”
Louisa shook her head, hoping that Atherton would not remember that that heroine also bore a physical resemblance to Louisa herself. But then, she assured herself quickly, there must be many young women in the world with chestnut hair and gray eyes.
His lordship looked as though he was going to speak again, but before he did, Betsy called from the open doorway. “Lou-is-a. The lady wants to go home.”
“Coming, Betsy.” Louisa did not know whether she was pleased or not that the Viscount would be leaving. She certainly enjoyed his company, but their conversation of the last few minutes had been rather close to an area she would prefer to avoid. She could not tell Atherton that she was Lady Incognita. Such a disclosure would, among other things, break her word to Mr. Grimstead who insisted that complete secrecy as to the author’s identity would insure higher sales. And she shuddered to think what would be his opinion of her should his lordship ever discover the truth. Women writers were considered a species apart. Surely no well-bred woman would so demean herself as to fall to such depths. And if Lady Incognita were discovered to be the daughter of a baron, what a field day the ton would have ripping her into little pieces. There would be nothing left, nothing at all.
His lordship, hand on her elbow, guided her up the steps and down the hall to the front door, where Lady Palmerton stood waiting. Louisa watched in silence as Atherton expertly shawled his sister and accepted his beaver and gloves from Drimble.
“You will hear from me, depend on it, my dear,” said Lady Palmerton. “We shall have all the ton talking about you.”
Louisa was about to protest that this was not at all her wish, but a look from Atherton stopped her.
“I shall be calling again,” he said calmly as he drew on his gloves and clapped the beaver on his dark head. “I much enjoy our conversations about literature. And, of course, I have to check on Apricot’s growth.”
“Of course,” murmured Louisa, scarcely knowing what she was saying.
His lordship escorted his sister down the steps to the carriage and handed her in. Then he climbed in beside her, said a word to the coachman, and sat back as the carriage drove off.
Louisa stood in the doorway staring after the departing carriage until a discreet cough from Drimble recalled her to the present. With a start she withdrew so that the grave butler could close the door. “Thank you, Drimble. I fear I am getting absentminded these days.”
“Yes, miss,” replied Drimble gravely and Louisa, already turned away and mounting the stairs, did not notice the merest of smiles that crossed that worthy retainer’s face. Absentmindedness, he was telling himself, was not precis
ely the matter that ailed his young mistress. No, it was something far more common than that. And about time, too.
Chapter Six
The next several days passed slowly. Louisa spent a great deal of time “at her accounts.” The family was all so used to her spending hours closeted in her room that they gave it little thought. But for Louisa the writing of the romance became more and more arduous. It seemed that nothing she could do would keep Reginald from looking and behaving like Atherton.
Her rest at night was disturbed by visions of the Viscount performing all the manly feats that the plot had decreed for Reginald. Even more disturbing was the fact that in those dreams Bernice’s features and form were those of Louisa herself.
This simply must stop, she told herself as she lay early one morning watching the sun send golden glimmers over the faded yellow curtains of the old oak bed. She had to finish this book. And she had to sell it. There was no other way to keep the family going. And most especially now that Lady Constance had become her friend. For that lady’s grand designs would demand some new gowns for Louisa, of that she was quite sure.
Thank goodness that Aunt Caroline had some skill with the needle. Between them they should be able to alter a few gowns, maybe even just one new one, to make them serve for many. They would simply have to, Louisa told herself firmly. For she would not eat away the small reserves that she had so carefully built up against Betsy’s coming out.
She sighed. But there still remained the question of what to do about Love in the Ruins. How could she take the book to Mr. Grimstead when the hero was so blatantly a copy of Philip, Viscount Atherton? She could not, she told herself, her fingers picking restlessly at the covers. If all the ton were engaged in trying to discover the identity of Lady Incognita, it would never do to so involve Atherton.
She sighed again. Before this last visit it had seemed all right. Who would imagine that a man of Atherton’s stature would stoop to reading romances? But even if he did not read this one - and after their last conversation Louisa much doubted that - someone in the ton would. And the Viscount would become the object of notoriety.
Lady Incognita Page 6
