by Regina Scott
Determined, she raised her head and regarded herself in the mirror. Now that the tempestuous emotions of the evening were passing, she must force herself to think clearly. She had set herself on this course of action for a reason. She needed to keep that reason in sight. Some obstacles might be expected in reaching any goal.
She brought up the image that had sustained her through school. She could see the little stone cottage, a stream meandering close by, filled with trout. She could see the bay roan grazing in the meadow alongside, the hollyhocks clustered along the stone wall. More fields, divided by hedges, circled all around, perfect for riding, for jumping. The picture was so real she could hear the birds calling, feel the sun warm on her face.
She held onto the image as she undressed, put away her clothes, and slid between the covers. That’s what she wanted. A home, happiness, everything that had been stolen from her by her parents’ death. Living on her sister’s estate with its formal hall was a poor substitute. “A cavalry officer might be enticed by the bucolic life, but she was fairly sure any husband her sisters found acceptable would not want anything so simple. So, marriage was out of the question.
And then there was the question of finances. If she could not wrest control of her inheritance from her sisters, she would have to give up the dream regardless. She supposed she might become a companion or governess for someone living in the country, but her temperament made her a bad choice for either vocation. Still, there were other ways to support herself. Hannah Moore had made her mark in people’s lives with her advice on Christian living. Lady Shelley had cut a swath through the literary world with that horror novel she’d written (a smuggled copy of which Cleo had read at the Barnsley School).
Yet those things, while fascinating, held no appeal for her own life.
Which brought her back to marriage. If she could find a fellow who shared her dream of country living, she thought she’d do well as a wife. Her father had seemed terribly happy with her mother. Very likely Cleo could manage a household. She could imagine choosing artwork, ordering comfortable furnishings and warm rugs. While wives married to rich peers simply oversaw those activities, at least they made sure their homes were efficiently run. She rather thought that would be an interesting challenge.
And then there was motherhood. A fellow would want to ensure the line, after all. She remembered growing up under her mother’s loving care. She did not think she could entrust her children to the care of nurses or governesses, like so many people seemed to be doing. She certainly would never abandon them to boarding schools. They would have tutors and governesses instead. Moreover, her children would have no doubt they were loved. In fact, she would very likely spoil them with her attentions. She could imagine tea parties with her daughters and tin soldier battles with her sons and teaching them all to ride and hunt and fish.
But as she envisioned her future, she found it difficult to picture the gentleman who would be the father of all those sons and daughters. She flirted with the idea of Major Cutter filling the role. Yet if he was the right choice, surely the ghostly figure in her dreams would be wearing a deep blue coat with gold braid at the shoulders. Instead, she could not help but notice, as she drifted off to sleep, he seemed to be wearing a blue velvet coat and smiling an amused little half smile.
*
It took two hours of lounging by the fire in his dressing gown before Leslie could even convince himself to try the bed.
The evening had not gone as he had intended. He had waited for Cleo to make some move to distinguish herself and ruin him forever in Lady Baminger’s eyes, but she had not moved away from his side for more than a country dance. She had glowered at every female who had promenaded past, and, when the interesting Miss Watkin had come to claim him for a waltz, she had all but snapped at the poor girl.
“I fear you must find me impertinent for thrusting myself upon you, my lord,” Eloise had murmured as they moved out onto the dance floor. “But I was uncertain whether Miss Renfield would be willing to let you go.”
Leslie smiled at her, enjoying the feel of her considerable curves next to his body. “No more so than I’m sure Major Cutter was loathe to part with you.”
She dimpled. “Ah, but Major Cutter and I do not have an understanding.”
She was leaving it to him to deny he had such an understanding with Cleo. He was more interested in her relationship with the major. At moments, such as when she gave an exaggerated swing to her hips while walking, he was tempted to believe she was less than an innocent. The gold-colored dress was molded to her frame. He would also have wagered a guinea to a groat that the luster of her lashes had been helped along by blacking, the blossoms on her fair cheeks by a rouge pot. Her smile as she glanced up at him was knowing, the way her body kept brushing his suggestive.
Another time he would have been more than happy to pursue the acquaintance. Now he simply wanted to know what exactly Tony Cutter was up to. The major had to know, between his appearance with Miss Watkin in the park two days ago and the two sets he had favored her with tonight, that he was making a statement. Yet the girl did not seem to think him attached.
“The more fool him,” Leslie had replied to her. “If he cannot see your worth, he cannot complain when others snatch you up.”
She laughed. “Major Cutter knows how much I value his company. He has no need for jealousy. Do you, my lord?”
“Certainly not,” Leslie told her. “The lady I loved would have no doubt as to my devotion, nor would I need to doubt her.”
She sighed. “Ah, Miss Renfield is a lucky girl. Should I be offering her my congratulations?”
The minx was insistent. “Congratulations may be premature,” he advised. “I assure you, when the time comes, all London will know.”
“In the meantime,” she murmured, glancing up at him from the corner of her emerald green eyes, “perhaps you would like to retrieve your hat? I shall be at home the next few afternoons.”
He promised to visit in the near future, but in truth he found the prospect far less intriguing than he had in the park. In a contest of womanly virtue, Miss Watkin came off a poor second to Cleo’s honest worth.
Cleo, on the other hand, had looked anything but intrigued when he had returned to her after the dance. She had been cool to him the rest of the evening. He was certain by the set of her proud little chin on the ride home that she was much miffed with him, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t as if she could be jealous.
As far as he was concerned, he was the one who should be miffed. He’d agreed to this whole charade as a favor to her and in hopes of fending off his growing lethargy since his father’s death. While he could not claim to be bored, neither could he claim to believe any longer that he was helping Cleo. If anything, her plan was hurting her. The more scandalous she appeared, the more Major Cutter seemed to be interested. And Tony Cutter simply wasn’t good enough for her.
He shook his head from his seat before the fire in the guest bedchamber. He could no more force himself to imagine Cleo with the major than he could force himself to sleep in the master bedchamber–his father’s bedchamber, he reminded himself. He’d thought Cutter a fine fellow. He had obviously been mistaken.
He’d known Cutter for several years, ever since the fellow’s return from the Peninsula following the Battle of Waterloo. With both of them men about town, it was inevitable that they might be drawn together for a game of cards or two. The major had at first been careful. Leslie suspected the man had the innate distrust of Leslie’s father and the gentlemen he recruited, for the military had long been skeptical of the ethics behind espionage. But once he had learned that Leslie had little part in his father’s activities, he had always treated Leslie with a politeness approaching friendliness. Leslie had always considered him moderately intelligent and affable.
Tonight, however, he had suddenly been stricken with the unfriendly desire to plant his fist in the fellow’s knowing smile. By what right did the miscreant think he was
on familiar enough grounds with Cleo to quote her a love poem? Never mind that Leslie had already quoted the same poem to her (and done a considerably better job, he might add). Leslie was a friend of the family, after all, and he and Cleo were attempting to make her family believe he was smitten. Tony Cutter, on the other hand, clearly had other purposes in mind. Leslie had seen the way the major’s gaze lingered over Cleo’s décolletage. He did not think Lady Agnes was right about Cutter being after Cleo’s money. After all, she had none. Still, the fellow was obviously less than honorable, and Leslie would be hanged before he let the fellow get his hands on Cleo.
Of course, he had to admit, that wasn’t the problem. He could easily find ways to keep Cleo and Cutter apart. Her family had already taken the fellow’s measure. The problem was something far more intractable. How was he to justify keeping Cutter away from Cleo when all Leslie could think about was getting closer?
He groaned, pulling his legs back under him and sitting up straighter in the wing-backed chair. This was ridiculous! Cleo was like a little sister to him. How could he dream of kissing a sister? The very idea should make him feel ill. He’d always resisted the suggestion that his wild activities made him less than a gentleman. Perhaps all those harping biddies of the ton were right. He was utterly depraved.
Yet a part of his mind rebelled at that notion. Cleo was not, after all, related to him by blood or marriage, for all they shared the same godmother. No church or legal decree would prevent a liaison. But he still could not convince himself he was ready to marry, and he could not have Cleo any other way.
No, the only choice lay in continuing to play the fool for her. He’d keep her from ruining her reputation and ward off her sisters. He would enjoy his time in her company, until the right man came along or she truly did ride off to the countryside.
But somehow he didn’t think boredom would describe his feelings when she left his life.
Chapter Nine
A
good night’s sleep was all it took for Cleo to wake once more determined to go through with her plan. She had not made enough progress last night. She had to find a way to get her sisters to abandon their plan to marry her off.
Normally, she would have a hard time even getting her sisters to take notice. They seldom called unless it was to upbraid her for some infraction of their rules. Once in a while she saw them at parties or the opera, but generally they did not move in the same company. Lady Agnes had at first insisted that Cleo visit each of them every week, but, after the first few visits had proved uncomfortable in the extreme, her godmother had stopped suggesting it.
Luckily, today was Sunday. Lady Agnes and Cleo always walked the short distance to church to join Ellie and Annie for services. If she could just think of a reason, she might entice them to visit afterward. She was so deep in thought that she barely listened to the sermon. Only the vicar’s parting quotation caught her attention.
“And so, in summary, look to the advice of Proverbs 15:22, which says, ‘Without counsel purposes are disappointed: but in the multitude of counselors they are established.’”
She shook her head. Normally she liked going to the Bible for advice, but this time she could not accept it. What she had in her life were entirely too many counselors.
By the time service ended, she still hadn’t come up with a convincing excuse to get her sisters to return to the house. To her delight, however, Ellie and Annie insisted on taking them home. Lady Agnes bristled but finally acquiesced. She sat in the carriage, looking down her nose at them as if the very sight offended her, although her sisters were for once in fine looks. Ellie’s plum kerseymere gown was elegantly tailored to her broadening frame and even Annie’s navy-striped silk was pressed and neat. Cleo tried to think what she might have done to warrant them inviting themselves along but could think of nothing. Then she remembered Ellie’s threat to return and discuss Cleo’s future with Lady Agnes. Clearly her older sister had brought Annie along for support. If she was right, Cleo vowed not to leave her godmother’s side.
“What do you want?” Lady Agnes demanded when Mr. Cowls had seen them seated in the withdrawing room and wisely exited, shutting the door behind him.
Ellie and Annie exchanged glances, and Cleo knew she had been right in her guess as to their purpose.
“We’ve come to discuss Cleo’s future,” Ellie answered.
“In private,” Annie added.
“Haven’t we done that to death?” Cleo put in even as Lady Agnes sat straighter in her dark silk gown. “Unless you have now determined that Lord Hastings is no longer worth my time, I fail to see what else there is to say on the matter.”
“Well spoken,” her godmother complimented her. “And if you have decided my Leslie is lacking, we do indeed need to have a talk.”
Ellie stuck out her chin. “Lord Hastings still has our support. We simply question the method of attaining him.”
“We are concerned about your chaperonage, Cleo,” Annie added. “We are not convinced poor Lady Agnes has the stamina to keep up with your mad starts.”
Cleo surged to her feet only to find her godmother alongside her.
“Stamina!” Lady Agnes cried, waving a gnarled hand in the air. “How dare you question my stamina? Perhaps you’d like a pointed demonstration of just how much energy I have.”
Annie recoiled slightly, but Cleo could not help but put in her own defense. “Shame on you!” she told her sisters. “Is it not enough that you bully me? Must you insult Lady Agnes as well?”
“Barbarians!” Hector shouted, spreading his wings.
Annie gasped. Cleo blinked. Ellie stared at him as if he’d grown horns.
“Did he just speak?” she demanded in the silence that followed.
“Yes, he did,” Lady Agnes declared, hurrying to the cage. “Clever boy, Hector! Clever, clever boy!”
“He called us barbarians!” Annie protested. “I heard him.”
“What he said,” Ellie interrupted haughtily, “is immaterial. We did not come here to talk to a bird. We came to talk to Lady Agnes.”
“Couldn’t we all just talk with each other?” Cleo ventured, hoping to get them away from the subject of Lady Agnes’ abilities and onto the subject of Leslie’s unsuitability. “I am told some families find it interesting.”
“We,” Electra intoned, “are not like other families.”
“Certainly not,” Annie agreed with a sniff.
Cleo frowned. “And why is that, do you think?”
“A very good question,” Lady Agnes pronounced, obviously giving up on the bird, who had returned to his silent brooding. “What exactly has put a spoke in your wheel, Electra? Why do you insist on badgering the girl?”
“I do not badger,” Ellie replied. Her stiff pose dared anyone to argue with her. “I merely do my duty, as I see it.”
“We are her older sisters, after all,” Annie put in. “Her only blood relatives, as you know full well.”
“Dunce,” Hector said obligingly.
Lady Agnes chortled with delight. Annie paled. Ellie narrowed her eyes at the bird.
“Someone,” she declared, “has taught this bird to speak.”
“Yes,” Cleo agreed merrily. “Lord Hastings. Hasn’t he done a marvelous job of it?”
“Splendid,” Lady Agnes proclaimed.
“Does he know anything other than insults?” Annie managed weakly.
“Not that I can tell,” Cleo told her.
“Insults?” Lady Agnes frowned. “I heard nothing out of the ordinary. He very clearly said Dolcea. I grant you we know no one of that name, but it’s a marvelous start.”
Now Annie regarded the bird as well. “Dolcea? Well, that is a relief. I rather thought he called me a—”
“Will you stop prattling on about that bird?” Ellie demanded, hands on her generous hips. “Mr. Carlisle is expecting me home by half past noon. I do not have time to waste.”
“Well neither do I,” Annie retorted with a toss of her head. “L
ord Stephenson expects to go out tonight, and I shall need sufficient time to dress.”
“Then perhaps you both should leave,” Lady Agnes remarked.
“Now, now,” Cleo put in. She could not help but be pleased that at least Annie had noticed the bird’s misbehavior, but she needed more time to sufficiently shock Ellie. Her mind cast around for anything she might use to her advantage. She had received no reaction from her dress last night, but of course she had ruined its affect with the fichu. The whole idea had been a waste of Leslie’s money. Then again, perhaps she might turn the leftover funds to good use.
“Can’t we be civil?” she begged. “If you will not talk, perhaps a hand of cards?”
Ellie grew even stiffer, if that were possible. “Cards?” she all but sneered.
Annie wrinkled her nose. “I have little interest in whist, I assure you.”
“Takes entirely too much intelligence,” Lady Agnes agreed, earning her a scowl from Annie.
“I was thinking of something more daring,” Cleo confided. “Leslie, er, Lord Hastings has been teaching me silverloo. I’m not terribly good yet, but I’d like to practice.”
“Gambling, on the Lord’s Day?” Ellie waved away her offer with a limp hand.
“Of no interest whatsoever without real money behind it,” Annie agreed wearily.
“Well,” Cleo said casually, “I do have some money put aside.”
Ellie looked thoughtful even as Annie narrowed her eyes. “You have money?” Annie demanded. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Lord Hastings gave it to me,” Cleo said innocently. “He advised me to buy a dress with it, as he does not approve of your taste in clothing. I found the most interesting shop where the lady was only too happy to fit me. She is a very talented seamstress. I cannot imagine why she only seems to attract actresses and opera dancers.”
Annie choked. Lady Agnes shook her head. Ellie glared at her.
“Were you seen going to this shop?” she demanded.
Cleo shrugged. “I don’t know. I did not make any attempt to hide. It cannot be so very bad a place if Lord Hastings likes the dresses, can it?”
