Ravenwood’s Lady, Lady Brittany’s Choice

by Amanda Scott

  “I daresay she is at that,” Ravenwood mused, watching her. “Never gave it much thought myself. Has an excellent chef, though. It will be a good dinner.” He lifted his quizzing glass and peered at her thoughtfully. “Daresay you’d like to rid yourself of some of that dust, my dear. Wigan, a bath for her ladyship.”

  Cicely opened her mouth to protest that she would much rather meet the housekeeper and have a tour of the house before Meg Hardy arrived with her clothes, but looking down at her crumpled skirts, she realized he was in the right of it.

  “What time are we expected tonight, my lord?”

  “Dinner at nine, I believe,” he replied, moving toward a side table and extracting a silver-edged card from a pile of similar articles in a Sevres basket. He glanced at it, then handed it to her. “As I thought.”

  Cicely took the card and read it through. There was a gracious note written in stylish copperplate on the reverse, ordering Ravenwood to bring his new bride, but it was a small notation engraved in the lower right-hand corner of the invitation itself that caught her eye: “Mr. Townsend will attend.”

  “Who is Mr. Townsend?” she asked, wrinkling her brow. “The name sounds familiar, but I cannot place it.”

  “John Townsend is Prinny’s tame Bow Street Runner,” Ravenwood answered. “I daresay he’s been invited because of the rash of robberies over the past months. No one seems to be immune. He’s quite a character, however. I think you will enjoy meeting him.”

  “But why has Lady Ribbesford put his name on the invitation?”

  “Makes folks feel safe, I expect. Knowing their money and jewels will be under the guardian eye of Mr. Townsend himself. You’ll come to find, my dear, that the ladies and, indeed, even some of the gentlemen think nearly as highly of John Townsend as he does himself.”

  Cicely chuckled, but she was looking forward to meeting the illustrious Mr. Townsend and couldn’t deny it, even to herself. A moment later a tall, slender, brown-haired woman, dressed neatly in black bombazine, entered through the green baize door at the back of the hall.

  “My lord, welcome home. I was informed of your arrival only moments ago. I expect, however, that you will find everything in order.”

  “I have no doubt of it, Mrs. Steele. Cicely, this is our housekeeper. You will come to treasure her as I do, for I daresay she is one of the most efficient of her ilk in London.”

  Cicely nodded as the woman made her curtsy. She had already been pleasantly surprised by the apparent order of the household, having somehow thought to find more of a bachelor’s establishment with few servants and much clutter. She had expected the task of bringing such a household into order to fall upon her own shoulders. But although she had been bred to handle just such a task, she could not deny she would be grateful to leave things to the trim, clearly capable Mrs. Steele.

  “Would you like me to show you to your apartments, my lady? Wigan will order a bath. I know you must be longing to relax and refresh yourself.”

  Willingly now, Cicely followed her up the graceful, carved staircase, then through a well-appointed drawing room to another, less decorative stair that took them to the second floor and a charming bedchamber. The walls were white, pin-striped with silver; the carpet was an Aubusson with a muted floral pattern in soft greys, lavenders, and pinks, and the curtains and bed hangings were pale lavender velvet. A maid knelt before the fireplace stirring coals into low flames. She jumped up at their entrance, then made a low curtsy.

  “This is Betty, my lady. She can help you until your own abigail arrives. Her ladyship wishes to bathe, Betty. The men will be bringing the tub shortly.”

  “Very good, mum,” Betty replied, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “I be right glad to do fer ’er ladyship.”

  “I am sure you will do very well, Betty,” Cicely said to her. Then she turned back to Mrs. Steele. “There is just one thing, Mrs. Steele.” The woman smiled, looking quite friendly. “If my clothes have not arrived, and I don’t see how they can have done so soon, I’ve not a stitch to put on but what I stand in.”

  Mrs. Steele’s smile broadened. “His lordship thought of that, my lady. There are clothes in the wardrobe, including, I’m sure, some sort of dressing gown.”

  Curious, Cicely stepped to the tall, carved wardrobe and pulled open the doors. Two evening gowns, a simple peach-colored frock, and a pale blue wool dressing gown hung there. “My gracious!”

  “His lordship likes to be prepared for unexpected events,” Mrs. Steele said. “He seldom leaves matters to chance. His bedchamber, by the by, is just through that door to the right, and your own sitting room is through the left-hand door. Will there be anything else now, ma’am?”

  “No,” Cicely answered absently, still staring at the dresses. Then she realized Mrs. Steele was on the point of leaving and turned quickly. “There is something else.” The woman turned back. Cicely thought she had never seen anyone so calm, so placid. No wonder Ravenwood liked her, she thought. Mrs. Steele was regarding her curiously. “I’d appreciate it if you would show me over the house after I’ve bathed. And do you suppose you could send up some fruit and cheese. I’m starving, and I’d just as soon not show it at Lady Ribbesford’s table this evening.”

  Real humor lit Mrs. Steele’s eyes. “At once, my lady. And when you wish for me to attend you, simply have Betty ring for me.”

  The hot bath was refreshing. Afterward, wrapped in the wool dressing gown and toasting her toes before the fire, Cicely relaxed, nibbling on an apple while Betty brushed her hair dry. Deciding she could not with propriety wander over the house in a wool dressing gown, she put on the peach frock before asking Betty to ring for the housekeeper.

  By the time she returned to her room she had decided she liked both the house and the housekeeper very much indeed. The house was a good deal smaller than anything she had previously lived in, but it was exceedingly comfortable and elegantly appointed. Clearly Ravenwood was not completely without a shirt. This had not been accomplished at three weeks’ notice. Besides, according to Mrs. Steele, she had been housekeeper here for nearly twelve years, which meant she had worked for Ravenwood’s father. Indeed, she mentioned that the dowager Lady Ravenwood had spent the last Season in the house while Ravenwood was on the Continent.

  “Will she be staying with us, do you think?” Cicely had asked her. But Mrs. Steele couldn’t say. It would be Lady Ravenwood’s decision.

  Cicely had liked the fragile dowager, and when she and Ravenwood were leaving for Ribbesford House, she asked him whether his mother would pay them a visit.

  “As she chooses,” he replied. “Will you mind?”

  “Of course not. I liked her.”

  “That relieves my mind considerably,” he responded promptly. “Mama does as she pleases, I fear. If I invite her, she is sure to say she has a palsy or an ague or the gout or some such thing.”

  “Not gout!”

  “Gout,” he repeated firmly, but the twinkle lurked in his deep blue eyes. “Don’t interrupt. I was about to add that though she never comes when invited, she inevitably arrives just when you least expect—or want—her to arrive.” There was a deeper gleam in his eye now, which led Cicely to suspect that Lady Ravenwood had arrived at an inopportune moment at least once. She longed to ask him about it but, fearing a setdown, held her tongue. “You’re looking quite fetching tonight, by the by,” he said after a brief pause.

  She was pleased. Having nearly given up hope that Meg and her own dresses would arrive in time, she had asked Betty to fetch out one of the evening gowns in the wardrobe. Unfortunately, though the fit was adequate, it was not what she was used to, so when Meg walked in five minutes later, she practically fell upon her neck in relief.

  “I am sorry not to wear one of those exquisite gowns you provided,” she said now. “It was thoughtful of you.”

  “Daresay they didn’t fit properly. I was afraid of that.”

  “Well …” She remembered Meg’s scandalized comments and stifled a chuckle. “
I am certain very little alteration will be required. ’Tis simply that you overestimated one portion of my anatomy and slightly underestimated another.” She shot him a mischievous look. “I hope the former was not by wishful thinking, sir. There is very little I can do to make myself grow.”

  He grinned appreciatively. “Only wait until you begin to increase, my dear. I’m given to understand that that’s practically the first area to grow and the last to return to normal.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Not a bit of it. Lynsted’s wife told me all about it. You’ll like Sally. She’s a good wench.”

  “If she spoke to you about such matters as that,” Cicely retorted swiftly, “I daresay my mother would take issue with you on that head, sir.”

  “Don’t be such a Lady Fidget, Cilly.”

  The words came with a smile, though, and Cicely smiled back. She supposed she was being prudish, but he had surprised her again. He did not seem to be the same person two hours running. Would she ever come to know him?

  Once they had reached Ribbesford House, however, she forgot all about analyzing him and thoroughly enjoyed herself. The dinner was as good as Ravenwood had promised it would be, and she met a number of interesting people. Sir David Lynsted and his wife, Sally, were among the first, and she promptly expressed her thanks for their hospitality the previous evening. As the evening progressed she discovered them to be kindred spirits. Sally was bubbly, and Sir David was possessed of a dry wit. At one point he put up his own gold-rimmed quizzing glass and surveyed Ravenwood, who had drifted away to speak to a plump gentleman in a blue coat that fit like a sausage casing.

  “Damned if I can think how he manages to stay awake through these things,” Sir David murmured. “He’s always half asleep when he comes through the door.”

  Sally, a pert brunette with plump arms and a full bosom that threatened to spill over the top of her dress, chuckled. “He’s awfully sweet, Davy, and you know it. He only looks sleepy, but I for one believe he’s awake upon every suit. Why, he’s the only one who even realized poor Faringdon was in—”

  “Hush, Sally,” said Sir David sternly. “Neither Ravenwood nor Faringdon would thank you for telling that tale out of school.”

  “Oh, pooh,” retorted Sally, grinning impudently, but when her husband’s gaze did not falter, she shrugged a pretty shoulder and changed the subject. A few moments later, however, when Sir David turned to acknowledge an acquaintance, she leaned closer to Cicely with a confidential air. “Towed Faringdon right out of River Tick and no one else even knew he was in the suds.” Cicely glanced at Sir David, and Sally chuckled again. “Never mind Davy—he’s merely being fusty. The old school tie and all that. No reason you shouldn’t know your husband’s capable of generosity. I’ll wager you don’t know him very well yet.”

  “I did know him some years ago,” Cicely said, “but I’ve scarcely laid eyes upon him since he returned from the Continent, and he’s changed a good deal from the boy I knew.”

  Sally nodded wisely. “Something happened to all of them over there, I think. They were all so full of fun and gig before, but since they’ve come home, they’re quite different.”

  “All? Then Sir David—”

  “Oh, Davy was there, all right, but he sold out after they put Napoleon on the shelf the first time. Gil and the others stayed for one reason or another, though Gil did come back briefly when his father died, of course.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “Oh, their cronies. You know—that is, I daresay you don’t—but most of them were at Eton and Oxford together, then purchased their colors together. The Inseparables, their parents were used to call them. There’s Gil and Davy, of course, and Faringdon, and Roger Carrisbrooke, and Inglesham—though we don’t see so much of him now, of course. His father’s been seriously ill these past months and isn’t expected to see another summer.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cicely, and meant it, though she hadn’t the slightest notion who either Inglesham or his father was.

  “We all are, of course.” Sally knitted her brow. “Who’ve I forgotten? Oh, there’s Blakeney and Wensley-Drew and Tom Lacey, though he was killed at Waterloo, so you won’t meet him. And Lord Toby Welshpool. I daresay you know him—everyone does—the Duke of Horncastle’s younger son.”

  Cicely did indeed know Lord Toby and, repressing a smile, was grateful to have a topic to discuss. “Do you mean to say he is in London now?”

  “Oh, yes. He always likes to get to Town the moment Parliament opens. They’ve all been here for some time, actually, now that I come to think of it. I couldn’t imagine why Davy wanted to come up so soon, but he said it was on account of all the fuss and bustle over the Princess Charlotte’s wedding.”

  Sir David turned back just then and informed them that Lady Ribbesford was organizing a set or two for a country dance in the next room. “Would you care to join me, Lady Cicely?”

  “Why, I’d like that very much, sir,” she replied, smiling.

  “Well, I call that shabby treatment, Davy,” scolded his wife with a twinkle in her blue eyes.

  “Nonsense, m’dear. If you wish to dance, here’s Faringdon delighted to partner you. Here, Tony,” he called. “Sal wants to dance.”

  “Right you are. My pleasure, Lady Lynsted.” A rakish-looking gentleman, with auburn hair skillfully styled a la Brutus and wearing a dark coat and pantaloons with a neat, rather plain waistcoat, made a leg and then grinned impudently at Sally. She made a moue.

  “He will tread upon my toes, Davy. You know he always does.”

  “’Twill teach you to be lighter on your feet, m’lady,” retorted her fond spouse. “Lady Cicely, have you met the Earl of Faringdon?”

  Cicely searched her memory, thinking he did look familiar. “I don’t believe so,” she said doubtfully.

  “Well, that’s put me in my place,” replied Faringdon with a wry grin. “I offered for your hand not two years ago, my lady. Got turned down flat, too,” he added for the others’ benefit.

  “Oh, dear!” Cicely looked up at him ruefully. “I’d quite forgotten, my lord. You see there were—” She broke off, blushing to think how conceited she would sound if she were to finish the sentence, but it was finished for her whether she liked it or not.

  “You must forgive my wife, Tony,” murmured the familiar voice at her shoulder. “There were so many, I fear she cannot remember them all.”

  Pointedly ignoring Ravenwood, she turned her candid gaze upon the earl. “I should blush, my lord, for that was what I nearly said myself, and ’twas not well done of me to speak so. If I was rude to you two years ago, I apologize for that as well and hope you will have the generosity to forgive me.”

  “Not at all, ma’am. Nothing to forgive. Assure you.”

  “I protest, Tony,” put in Ravenwood on a near-querulous note. “Let her apologize. It will no doubt do her a great deal of good. All young girls in their first, and certainly in their second, Seasons are rude. And cruel.”

  Cicely drew herself up indignantly, only to hear Sir David chuckle behind her. “Behave yourself, Gil, or I’ll have to call you out. You are insulting my partner for the dance. I hear the musicians tuning their fiddles, Lady Cicely. Shall we?”

  Gratefully Cicely put her hand upon his arm and, with a chilly look at her husband, let Sir David lead her into the next room. She decided that if she was to begin flirting, she might as well begin with him. His easy responses let her know he was only too happy to oblige her, and when Faringdon appeared at the end of the first set to suggest an exchange of partners, she agreed to it immediately, favoring him with her most charming smile. He responded with exaggerated gallantry, and she soon found that she was enjoying herself hugely, laughing gaily, and entering into the spirit of the fast-paced dancing. When the music paused, they drew up, breathing heavily but grinning at each other.

  “That was fun, my lord,” she said. “I liked it prodigiously.”

  “Dare I solicit your hand fo
r another, my lady?”

  “Indeed you may, sir. You did not tread upon my toes even once.” She laughed, looking up at him from under her lashes. “If you are a friend of my husband’s, I daresay we shall come to know each other much better.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” His look grew a shade more serious. “Perhaps I should return you to him now before he comes to search for us.”

  “I doubt he would exert himself,” she said, chuckling. “Moreover, my lord, we have agreed that we shall not interfere with each other.”

  “Indeed.” He sounded slightly skeptical and looked around as though he expected to find Ravenwood descending upon them. Instead there was a heavyset young man with curly, light brown hair who stepped forward eagerly.

  “Cicely!”

  “Toby! How nice to see you!” she exclaimed. “Sally said you were in Town. You know Lord Faringdon, of course.”

  “Unfortunately,” Lord Toby agreed with a mock grimace. “Trying to cut Gil out already, Tony?”

  “I’ve no death wish,” chuckled Faringdon. “I leave you in good hands, my lady.” He took himself off, and Lord Toby guided Cicely toward a set of chairs, thoughtfully placed against the wall for the weary and the aged.

  She was truly glad to see him. She had met Lord Toby at the beginning of her first Season, when he had been recovering from wounds sustained in battle and had been temporarily assigned to London. He had been one of the few who had never offered for her hand. Indeed, Lord Toby was quite the despair of the matchmaking mamas because, although a younger son, he was nevertheless eminently suitable husband material. But Lord Toby clearly had no wish to settle down upon one of his family’s vast estates. For the moment, at least, he much preferred the company of men to that of a wife.

  “Have you been in Town long?” she asked.

  “Oh, merely a week or so.” He gazed at her critically. “Marriage suits you.”

  “Does it indeed? And how can you tell, sir? I’ve been married only two days, after all.”