by Amanda Scott
“I should enjoy that very much,” he replied. “Unfortunately, I am engaged to dine at the Pavilion tonight. Plans are in progress for celebrating his highness’s birthday, which falls on Tuesday, as you know. You and Aurora will be attending the ball?”
“Indeed, we will, sir,” Nell said, firmly stifling an absurd sense of disappointment at his refusal to dine with them. It was merely, she told herself firmly, that she had hoped to help further his acquaintance with his bride-to-be. However, there would be time enough for that, and Rory did not seem in the least dismayed by the prospect of dining without the pleasure of his company.
V
LORD HUNTLEY’S CARRIAGE ROLLED up before Number Twenty-seven Upper Rock Gardens promptly at two o’clock. Nell noted his arrival from her chair by the drawing room window. Setting aside her book and glancing at her watch, she observed aloud that his lordship was certainly the punctual sort.
In the straight-backed damask chair opposite her, Rory shrugged. “I daresay he is. I have not myself acquired the habit of punctuality, however, so I hope he won’t expect it of me. Do we go down or wait for him to come up here?” She showed little enthusiasm for either course as she continued to turn over the pages of the ladies’ magazine she had been perusing.
“Pavingham will not show him upstairs because he knows we mean to go out directly,” Nell said equably, “so I think we should collect our hats and gloves. And I expect you will be glad of a pelisse if he means to walk along the esplanade.”
Rory sighed but put her magazine aside obediently. A few moments later they joined Huntley in the small green saloon on the ground floor.
“You are very prompt, sir,” Nell said, greeting him with a wide smile. “I hope you do not mind that we have kept you waiting a moment or two.”
“Not at all, Miss Lindale,” he replied in his quiet way. “I took the precaution of directing my coachman to walk the horses.”
“I don’t think Aunt Nell was particularly concerned about your horses, Huntley,” Rory said, her words tinged very slightly with sarcasm. “I daresay she feared you might suffer from boredom.” She moved to the looking glass to straighten her hat and so missed the quick flash of annoyance in his lordship’s eye.
Nell saw it, but when he turned to look at her, the annoyance had dissipated. Nonetheless, his gaze was oddly penetrating. “It was most kind of Miss Lindale to be concerned—if, indeed, she was—for my well-being. However, I should not be a very practical man if I were to neglect the welfare of my horses.”
“Very true, sir,” Nell said lightly. “My papa always put the welfare of his horses ahead of his own. Shall we go?”
Huntley’s carriage could be seen approaching from Edward Street when they emerged from the house, and once they were all inside, the coachman directed his horses toward the Marine Parade. His lordship had graciously taken the forward seat, so Nell was comfortably able to point out the sights to her niece.
Just as she was showing Rory the baths at the corner where the Steyne met the Marine Parade, Huntley signaled his coachman to halt.
“Would anyone else like some gingerbread or an apple?” he inquired.
Rory stared at him as if he had spoken a foreign tongue, but Nell grinned, nodding her pleasure as she exchanged a knowing look with him.
“I should very much enjoy some gingerbread, sir. Do have some, Rory. Phoebe’s gingerbread is practically a tradition.”
“I am not very hungry,” replied her ladyship, “but in any event, I should prefer an apple.”
“As you wish.”
Huntley jumped down and strode across the street, and a moment later, leaning out, Rory exclaimed, “I thought there must be a bakeshop, but he is purchasing your gingerbread from that peculiar old woman on the corner, Aunt Nell.”
“So he is, dearest,” Nell replied, unperturbed. “That is Phoebe Hessell, and she is no ordinary old woman. Indeed, she served in the Army for five years as a private soldier.”
“But females do not serve in the Army!”
“Phoebe did. She was even wounded once. Her daring ought to appeal to that romantic heart of yours, Rory dear, for many years ago when her lover was ordered to the West Indies with his regiment, Phoebe contrived to follow him. As I understand it, she was a strongly built, deep-voiced girl of fifteen at the time, though I’ll confess ’tis hard to imagine her so right now.” She glanced again at the wrinkled old woman, who, despite the clement weather, wore a knitted woolen tippet, a huge shabby bonnet over a well-worn cap, and long wash-leather mittens, the ragged ends of which quite failed to cover her weather-beaten fingers.
“She is very old,” said Rory softly, “and does not look as if she can ever have been very pretty.” Indeed, the woman’s large nose, dominating a small face that resembled nothing so much as one of her own apples well dried out, made such a possibility as youthful beauty seem unlikely.
“Nevertheless,” Nell continued, watching Huntley as he paused to exchange a few words with Phoebe, “she followed her Samuel by disguising herself as a boy and enlisting in another infantry regiment. And not until Samuel was sent home, suffering from a severe wound, did she disclose the secret of her gender and obtain her discharge. Upon her return, she found Samuel in hospital and obtained permission from the authorities to nurse him. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered, they were married, and they lived together quite happily for some twenty years before his death.”
“That is a romantic tale, but now poor Phoebe is forced to support herself by selling gingerbread and apples on a street corner,” Rory said, shaking her head. “I think that is very sad.”
“Phoebe likes what she does,” Nell told her. “It gives her a chance to talk with her many friends and to make a little extra money, but her gingerbread is not what saved her from the Poor House. His highness did that.”
“The Prince of Wales?”
“Indeed, it is merely one of many examples of his generous heart. When he heard of Phoebe’s plight, he called her a jolly old fellow and arranged for her to be paid ten shillings a week from his own purse.”
“Ten shillings!”
Nell smiled at Rory’s outraged expression. “Not a vast amount by your standard, my dear, but ample enough for Phoebe’s modest needs, I assure you. She never overlooks an opportunity to sing his praises. Now, do push open that door again, for here comes Huntley, and by the look of him, he has purchased Phoebe’s entire supply.”
It certainly appeared as if he had done that very thing, for he had a bulky parcel done up with string tucked under his arm. As he climbed into the carriage, he handed Rory a shiny red apple. Then, signaling to his driver, he leaned back against the squabs and grinned at Nell, looking like a mischievous schoolboy.
“I daren’t open this while we are moving, or we shall have crumbs all over us. I thought perhaps we might find a place to stop near the Bedford Hotel. Then we shall be able to indulge our appetites properly.”
Rory stared at him. “Do you like gingerbread so much, sir?”
“I like this gingerbread.”
They passed Black Lion Street, Ship Street, and Middle Street, and soon the carriage was rolling along past the Battery. The row of new hotels facing the open expanse of sand and blue sea loomed ahead of them on the King’s Road, but the carriage turned onto the esplanade, and Huntley signaled his driver to draw up alongside the wide lawn that separated the cobbled pavement from the dry stone wall above the beach.
“Now we may enjoy our treat,” his lordship stated with satisfaction, beginning to undo the string.
“One has a lovely view from here,” Rory observed noncommittally. “Would it be flying in the face of propriety if I was to get out and walk alongside the sea wall for a bit?”
“I hardly think—” Huntley began.
“Not at all, my dear,” Nell said in the same breath. Then, realizing she was contradicting his lordship, she bit off her words and raised rueful eyes to him. “I am sorry, my lord.”
He shook his h
ead gently. “Not at all, Miss Lindale. No doubt I was hasty. This place is hardly St. James’s or Bond Street, after all. Her ladyship will come to no harm here, I think. Moreover, Laxton will watch over her and see that no young sprig dares to accost her. Pray do not stray beyond his sight, Aurora.”
“No sir, I won’t. Thank you,” she added as he opened the carriage door and stepped out to hand her down. He saw her safely to the flagway, then returned to his place.
“We can all stroll a bit, sir, if you think we should go with her,” Nell said, suddenly conscious that she was alone with him.
“Nonsense. I want my gingerbread.”
Without further ado, he removed his dark leather gloves and opened the package. Then, withdrawing a snowy handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, he spread it over his hand, placed a generous square of gingerbread in its center, and handed it to Nell. Their hands touched.
“It smells delicious,” she said, hoping she looked and sounded more poised than she felt. Her fingers, even beneath her York tan gloves, seemed to burn where Huntley’s hand had met hers. This chaperon business had hidden pitfalls. She could not remember being alone with any man until now except for her father and brother. It would not have been thought seemly. If, for example, when they had met so many years before, Philip Radford had offered to take her driving in a closed carriage, she would certainly have been accompanied by her maid, even as she now accompanied Rory. No eyebrow would do more than twitch should anyone chance to notice her—a mere chaperon—in the carriage with him now, though it would occasion a good deal of talk if she were the one walking along the sea wall munching an apple while Rory dined tête à tête on gingerbread with his lordship in the carriage. Really, the rules of society were sometimes a trifle odd.
“I’ll grant the delightful aroma, Miss Lindale, but one is expected to taste gingerbread as well as to smell it.”
Nell looked up, startled. His eyes were twinkling, and she remembered how interesting she had thought his face in those days gone by. How could Rory think he looked to be always frowning? With a quick apology, she moved to break off a small chunk of the gingerbread, then paused, realizing she still wore her gloves. Carefully, she set the little cake and handkerchief in her lap, then peeled off her right glove. Her nerves seemed to have a mind of their own, and she felt all thumbs. It would not have surprised her in the least if, instead of lifting the morsel daintily to her mouth, she had dropped it or crumbled it or even missed her target.
Really, Nell, she scolded herself, this is most unlike you. Get a grip, my dear. She had been concentrating upon her task and now, looking up at him again, realized that he had been watching her. She felt rapid, telltale color creeping into her cheeks. She swallowed quickly.
“’Tis very fine weather, is it not, my lord?”
“It is. I believe we agreed upon that fact only this morning.”
“So we did,” she agreed, searching hastily for another tack. “Have you very much business to attend to while you are here in Brighton, sir?”
“A little. Mostly humdrum stuff.”
“Then you will have time to attend the festivities. Do you go to the opening assembly at the Castle on Monday?”
He helped himself to another generous chunk of gingerbread. “I am not much in the habit anymore of doing the fancy, I’m afraid. That is one reason I thought it only fair that Aurora have a chance to enjoy herself before the wedding. It will not be very gay for her at Huntley Green.”
“But surely you do not mean to retire from society once you have married, sir!” She tried to imagine her lively niece rusticating permanently in rural Kent. It was a vision impossible to achieve, even with her fertile imagination.
“I daresay we shall make an occasional visit to London,” he said, more as if he were mulling over the thought than as if it were a decision he had already made. “I have a house there, in Berkeley Square. My mother is there now.”
“You do not go yourself?”
“Occasionally, for a day or two, to see my tailor or to have a word with my man of affairs.” He leaned forward, peering out the carriage window. “I hope she doesn’t take it into her head to wander off.”
“My lord, why on earth did you offer for Rory?” The words came before Nell had any notion she meant to speak them. Huntley stiffened slightly, and she dared not speak again, but waited warily for him to respond.
He relaxed again immediately, and when his gaze met hers, she saw amusement rather than irritation. “You haven’t changed very much, have you, Nell? Your tongue still outruns your head.”
“Oh, sir, pray forgive me. I should not have asked such an impertinent question as that.”
“But you did ask,” he pointed out. “Do you wish to know the answer?”
Honesty as well as rampant curiosity made it impossible to respond in the negative. She nodded her head. “And curiosity is so unbecoming in a lady of quality.”
“Nonsense,” he replied bracingly. “Honesty must always be becoming to anyone. And you are, as I recall the matter, always honest, Nell.”
She had scarcely noted his use of her nickname the first time, but she couldn’t fail to note it now. “I have not given you leave, sir, to call me Nell. ’Tis not seemly in view of my position as Rory’s chaperon.”
The hazel eyes glinted with a near metallic hardness. “Don’t play foolish female games with me,” he said, but his voice was surprisingly gentle. “You gave me leave eight years ago.”
“But that was eight years ago, my lord. We were friends then. Now I feel I scarcely know you.”
It was true. Philip Radford had been an open, cheerful young man with easy manners and the patience to set a shy young girl at her ease. He had been noted for his tolerance, his generosity, and his kindness. Lord Huntley, on the other hand, seemed harder, more reserved, even cynical, as if the world and time had shown him too much of life. He was still just as handsome, and she had caught fleeting glimpses of the sense of humor that had once been so easily expressed, but as for the rest, he might as well have been a rather chilly stranger.
“We could be friends again,” he said now.
“Perhaps, and I hope we shall be,” she replied warmly. “It would be most uncomfortable always going about together if we could not be friends.”
He seemed completely taken aback for once. “Always going about! What on earth do you mean by that?”
“Well, surely you mean to escort your intended bride whenever she goes out for an evening’s pleasure, my lord.”
“No, I do not. There can be no reason for that. She will enjoy herself well enough—probably moreso—without my escort.”
Nell stared at him, wondering at her own vivid disappointment. “You cannot mean that, sir,” she said quietly. “How much credit do you suppose the beau monde will give your betrothal if you ignore your intended bride altogether?”
“I daresay the betrothal will survive,” he replied. “It is to be a marriage of convenience, after all. And it would not be convenient to me to begin by being continually dragged to balls, soirees, and musical evenings.”
Nell felt a sudden flash of anger but managed to stifle it before it did any more than add light to her lovely eyes. “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you have no reason for marrying my niece other than to acquire her papa’s estates? I own, I’d not have credited the friend I used to know with, such cupidity.”
“I offered for her,” Huntley replied in measured, even goaded tones, “because it seemed the most practical thing to do. My brother died without issue, and the title will die with me if I do not produce a son, a fact that has been thrown up to me incessantly over the past two years by both my mother and my elder sister. You should meet them before you condemn my actions. I promise you, they both frighten the wits out of me.”
He seemed perfectly serious, and the atmosphere in the carriage had intensified to the point where Nell felt a distinct need for a touch of levity.
“Termagants both?” she inquired, lifting
her brows and smiling at what was so clearly a jest.
But Huntley gave the word serious consideration, his heavy brows knitting into one.
“Louisa is a termagant,” he pronounced at last. “She is married to Sir Gerald Dalrymple, whose family has royal connections. Nevertheless, despite such solid nobility to support him, I cannot recall a single instance when Sir Gerald actually showed the temerity to dispute my sister’s word. I daresay he goes in terror of her just as I do.”
“I’ve no doubt you are roasting me, sir,” Nell replied, “and I know for a fact that your mama is no termagant, for I have had the honor of meeting her myself, you will recall. She is a very gentle lady. I remember she always wore pale gowns when everyone else was striving for a rainbow effect.”
“Oh, Mama still wears pale gowns,” he agreed with a wry twist of his lips. “Louisa wins through by her assertive personality, but Mama enjoys even greater success with a mere lace handkerchief and a crystal vinaigrette.”
“Oh dear!” Nell chuckled appreciatively. “My mama is much the same, sir. Whenever things do not go her way, out comes her vinaigrette. And the hartshorn, as well. She waves the one under her nose and drinks the other and contrives to look very weak and ill-used. But surely you do not allow yourself to be governed by such tactics as that!”
“Alas, you do not know my mama at all, Miss Lindale. She has perfected the use of such common weapons to a pure art form. Feminine tears, I fear, quite unman me, just as they did my brother and father before me. So what with Mama always crying over the shocking fact that, despite her foresight in presenting Papa with not one, but two stout sons, the succession seems now doomed to fade away only because of my dreadful lack of a sense of duty, and my sister saying much the same, of course, and saying it much more loudly … It was she who suggested the Lady Aurora, since the Crossways lands would so admirably increase the size of Huntley Green.”
“But surely there were other, more suitable ladies.”
“If by suitable you mean older, there was only one. Her papa’s lands bound mine on the east. However, even Louisa did not feel we should pursue that connection once she discovered that the lady in question possessed a hook nose, a wart on her left cheek, and forty years in her dish.”
