The Tudor Signet

by Carola Dunn

  “Ramshackle puppy!” he snorted.

  Lady Bolger was worst. A noted gossipmonger, she was determined to wring from Mariette every detail of her past, her life at Bell-Tor Manor, and her future prospects. Lord Malcolm sat beside Mariette and did his best to shield her unobtrusively, but it was Lady Lilian who saved her. She asked about Miss Bolger’s coming London Season, a topic still more interesting to the young lady’s hopeful mama.

  After that, Mariette only had to endure an occasional query about her own lack of a Season and snide commiseration on her being practically on the shelf. The Bolgers did not stay long, although they had come some distance. Sir Nesbit failed to interest Lord Malcolm in the local hunt, and his daughter’s Court and coming-out ball gowns he decried, loudly, as feminine fripperies beneath his notice. Bored, he removed his family after half an hour.

  “Thank heaven!” said Lady Lilian as the door closed behind them. “Another five minutes and I should have had to offer tea. Emmie, when we come to preparing for your Season, pray do not let me prose on and on about your gowns like that! Mariette, are you quite exhausted?”

  “Only of sitting still and minding my tongue, Lady Lilian. I should like to walk a little.”

  “Take my arm,” said Lord Malcolm at once, helping her to stand. “Play us a march, Emmie.”

  Laughing, Emily went to the piano and looked through her music. Mariette and Lord Malcolm strolled to one end of the long room, admired a landscape hanging there, and strolled back. As they passed Miss Thorne she muttered something disagreeable about wearing a path in the carpet.

  Lord Malcolm pressed Mariette’s hand and she made no response, but Lady Lilian had overheard.

  “My dear Cousin Tabitha,” she said, more sharply than Mariette had yet heard her speak, “carpets are made to be walked on.”

  “I am only trying to preserve your beautiful possessions, Lilian,” said Miss Thorne with an injured sniff.

  Mariette looked down at the carpet, patterned with an intricate design in blue-grey and crimson, which she had not particularly noted before. “It is a splendid carpet,” she said in an undertone to Lord Malcolm. She could not be overheard as Emily started to thump away at a march. “I am surprised Miss Thorne appreciates beauty when she chooses such a revolting colour for her knitting.”

  “She knits for the Poor Basket,” he said sardonically. “The poor do not deserve attractive colours. They must be kept in their place.”

  “Is that what she thinks?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, slightly shamefaced. “Perhaps she likes mustard-yellow and believes the recipients do too.”

  They reached the window at the end of the drawing room and stood looking down the valley. The sky was hazy and a brisk breeze from the southwest rippled through the bare woods. Mariette’s mind was elsewhere.

  “I should not care to model my behaviour on Miss Thorne’s,” she said hesitantly. “I daresay she is always decorous and ladylike and proper, but I cannot like her disposition. Nor would I choose Lady Bolger as a patterncard.”

  “Good Lord no! Dreadful female.”

  “I expect it is a great impertinence in me to presume to criticize when I have not the least notion how to go on, but--”

  “Not at all. You show excellent judgment. But...?”

  “But I am so very lucky to have made Lady Lilian’s acquaintance first, to be able to compare the others to her. She is a perfect lady, is she not?”

  “Come now, Miss Bertrand, you cannot expect a brother to admit to his sister’s perfection! You see, I remember her teaching me to climb trees.”

  “She did?” Astonished, Mariette glanced back to view Lady Lilian with an entirely new eye. “That only adds to her perfection--but I know how to climb trees.”

  He grinned. “I was sure you must, and without a teacher no doubt. However, in other matters I will agree you cannot do better than to learn from her.”

  The music stopped. “You are not walking,” cried Emily.

  “Play something a little less vigorous,” proposed her uncle. “Miss Bertrand is not quite well enough to join the army after all.”

  Not quite well enough to join the army, perhaps, Mariette thought, but for several days she had been quite well enough to go home. Uncle George’s aged trap would be uncomfortable, but not unbearable with a cushion on the seat, if she were not offered the use of a carriage. She must not take advantage of Lady Lilian’s generosity much longer.

  Just one more day she would give herself to learn what she could by observing her ladyship. One more day to be cossetted by Emily and Jenny. One more day to lean on Lord Malcolm’s arm, to bask in the warmth of his smile.

  Did she dare hope he might call at Bell-Tor Manor?

  Chapter 8

  After helping Mariette upstairs, a frustrating process as he’d much rather have carried her, Malcolm sought out his sister. Remorseless, he invaded her sanctum, a small room part study and part sitting room. She used it to keep her accounts, write letters, consult with bailiff, housekeeper, and butler, and also to escape her household. No one entered without an appointment or an invitation.

  No one except a disrespectful younger brother with a matter of pressing importance on his mind.

  “Lilian, are you going to offer to teach Mariette?”

  She glared at him over gold-rimmed spectacles. “This is my private room.”

  “Good, no one will interrupt us. Good gad, Lilian, I didn’t know you wore spectacles.”

  “Only for close work,” she said defensively, laying down her pen and taking them off with a self-conscious air. “Since you arrived I have had no time for reading or embroidery. Pray do not tell...anyone.”

  “Oho, vain, are we? You need not fret, Des won’t care a groat.”

  Lilian blushed. “I was not thinking of Captain Aldrich. You did make sure he understands he is expected to dinner tomorrow?”

  “He’ll be here. Mariette will be well enough to dine with us, too, I believe. When do you mean to offer to teach her?”

  “I have not said I will.”

  “She won’t be offended, Lilian, truly. Have you not noticed how bashful she is with visitors? She is afraid of making mistakes. You must be aware how closely she observes you and Emily.”

  “Indeed! I find myself thinking twice before I say a word or move a finger.”

  “She told me today she thinks you quite perfect.”

  “Perfect!” Lilian groaned. “Oh, Malcolm, what a dreadful responsibility.”

  “I had a notion that would disturb you.” He grinned. “So I revealed your tree-climbing youth.”

  “You wretch!”

  “Not the green-apple episode, not yet.”

  “You would not!”

  “Not if you agree to teach her,” Malcolm said blandly and shamelessly.

  “Odious wretch! I shall speak to her tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I had already decided to offer to help her. I like her.”

  “Bless you, Lilian! She is a darling, isn’t she? Do you think she might come to care for me enough to marry me?”

  “You do mean to ask her, do you? I feared you intended to wed her out of hand.”

  “Now who is the wretch? I shall go down on my knees to her.” He glanced down at his immaculate trousers. “If necessary. Will she have me?”

  “How can I tell? It is far too early for you to press her. Wait at least until she is more at home in the world, for she has her pride and will not like to accept you while she feels herself your inferior.”

  “Inferior! She is perfection,” said Malcolm dreamily, then shook his head and smiled. “No, not perfection, just a darling. Very well, I shall wait--for a little while.”

  * * * *

  The following morning brought no callers but shortly after luncheon Blount announced Lord Wareham.

  At once Mariette was certain that, however adequately she had dealt with previous visitors, she was bound to make a mull of things. The baron had only to look at her with his supercili
ous eyebrows raised and she would disgrace herself.

  She threw a panicked glance at Lord Malcolm. He was regarding her seriously, as if he had guessed how she felt about Lord Wareham. She wished she could tell him about her previous encounter with the man--he’d tease her about it and then she wouldn’t mind any more--but his already poor opinion of Ralph would be confirmed.

  “Would it be very shocking,” she whispered to him, “if I went to sit in the morning room?”

  “Running away?” he rallied her gently, with an odd note of satisfaction. “I know you to be no coward.”

  “I am not, but Ragamuffin can be with me there. He does not like to be banished to the stables when I am in the drawing room.”

  “Gammon, he likes to visit the horses, though I’d swear he misses your Sparrow since your groom took him home. Besides, you are too late to escape unseen.”

  Lady Lilian had told the butler to show Lord Wareham in and his steps were heard in the hall. As he appeared in the doorway, Emily who had been showing her mother her embroidery, hurriedly moved to a seat next to Mariette.

  “Is he not handsome?” she breathed. “But he scarcely knows I exist.”

  “Good gad, Emmie,” Mariette exclaimed, horrified, “he is old enough to be your father.”

  “I don’t want him for a husband, only for a flirt. Lizzie Phillips danced with him at an assembly in Plymouth at Christmas and she says he is a splendid flirt.”

  “Ugh!” Mariette wondered whether it would have been better or worse if Lord Wareham had tried to flirt with her instead of turning up his nose. Worse, she decided.

  “To tell the truth,” Emily whispered, “I don’t like him above half, and I am not sure how to flirt. Uncle Malcolm, must one like a man to flirt with him?”

  “I’d say liking is not a requirement, though it makes for a vastly more enjoyable experience. At least you should not dislike him! In any case you are by far too young to think of flirting.”

  Emily pouted. Mariette pondered Lord Malcolm’s words and regretfully decided he must be a practised flirt to speak with such expertise. He had been flirting with her. She must take care not to read more into his words than he intended.

  What a pity she did not know how to flirt back!

  She looked at him, to find him watching Lord Wareham and Lady Lilian. Bowing, the baron raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. If that was flirtation, Lady Lilian did not appear to enjoy it. She looked vexed and quickly extricated her hand from his.

  “Morning, Wareham,” Lord Malcolm drawled in a loud voice, forcing him to turn away from Lady Lilian.

  “Morning, Eden.”

  “B’lieve you’re acquainted with Miss Bertrand?”

  “Miss...?” He gazed at her as if he had never seen her before. “Oh, Barwith’s niece. Have we met, ma’am?”

  “Once. How do you do, sir.” Mariette was not forced to think up something polite to say since he was already turning back to his hostess, scarcely acknowledging Emily’s curtsy. She found she did not care a groat for his disregard, now that she had supportive friends about her.

  “Is he not horrid?” Emily said in a low but indignant voice. “He must know you have been ill yet he did not even enquire how you go on!”

  Lady Lilian reluctantly invited the baron to be seated, indicating a chair at a little distance. He pulled it up close to her before sitting down.

  “You a huntin’ man, Wareham?” Lord Malcolm enquired, still in the lazy drawl so unlike his usual mode of speech. Mariette looked at him in surprise. He wore a rather vacant, fatuous expression, eyelids drooping to hide his eyes, his posture languid.

  “I go out occasionally with the local hunt,” Lord Wareham said, a hint of irritability in his tone.

  “Was talkin’ to Bolger yesterday.”

  And that was a downright taradiddle! Mariette distinctly recalled his utter lack of interest in Sir Nesbit’s favourite topic. She realized he had intervened to save his sister from an unwelcome tête-à-tête.

  “Yes,” said Lord Wareham tersely, “Bolger’s our Master of Fox Hounds.”

  “Run a good pack?”

  “Tolerable. I am no expert.”

  “Nor I, but I thought I might turn up at a meet or two while I’m here.”

  “You hunt?” sneered the baron, making no attempt to hide his disbelief.

  “Lord no! Like Brummell, I don’t go beyond the first field.”

  “I’ve heard the Beau’s afraid of dirtying his boot-tops.”

  “Very proper.” Lord Malcolm gazed down with every appearance of satisfaction at the spotless white turnovers of his top-boots. “Shockin’ bad ton, dirty boots.”

  “Not in the country, I assure you.”

  “Shockin’ place, the country.”

  “Quite shocking. Do you stay long?”

  “Haven’t quite made up my mind,” Lord Malcolm confided. “A fellow has a duty to keep his sister company, don’t you know.”

  Mariette glanced at Lady Lilian, who seemed to be struggling with dismay, amusement, and gratitude. Her face quickly smoothed as Lord Wareham turned to her.

  “I cannot regard keeping Lady Lilian company as a matter of duty,” he said suavely. “Call it rather a great pleasure and a delight I constantly aspire to.”

  Miss Thorne’s entrance at that moment was for once welcome. Lady Lilian rose and went to meet her, asking, “Did you find your new wool, Cousin Tabitha?”

  “Yes, thank you, Lilian. I had put it on a shelf at the top of my clothes press and Pennick had carelessly pushed it to the back. Emily, if you are not otherwise occupied you may come and help me wind the skeins.”

  Emily’s groan was inaudible except to Mariette. She obediently went to join Miss Thorne in her usual place near the fire. Lady Lilian sat down again, on a chair considerably farther from Lord Wareham than her previous seat.

  “When does the hunt next meet?” Lord Malcolm enquired. “Daresay Bolger told me but I’ve forgot.”

  “Tomorrow, I believe,” said the baron impatiently. He stood up, moved to the fireplace, and held out his hands to the flames as he went on, “But I suspect you will be disappointed--or perhaps relieved?--by a cancellation. I observed as I rode over that the clouds definitely threaten snow, and a fair amount if I’m any judge.”

  Leaving the fire, he headed towards the chair beside Lady Lilian. She jumped up with somewhat less than her usual grace and said quickly, “Then we must not detain you, Lord Wareham. It would be beyond anything if you were caught in a snowstorm on your way home.”

  “Unthinkable!” said Lord Malcolm, a hint of smugness in his drawl. He had risen when his sister stood up and now advanced, sauntering yet somehow purposeful, on Lord Wareham. He took the baron’s arm. “I’ll see you out, my dear fellow. No, no,” he insisted when the baron opened his mouth to protest, “we quite understand. It was civil in you to come all this way in such inclement weather to enquire after Miss Bertrand’s health but you must not stay at risk of foundering your horse in a snowdrift.”

  Still chattering inanely, he drew the hapless baron out of the room.

  Mariette met Lady Lilian’s eyes and both at once clapped their hands to their mouths to stifle giggles.

  “Uncle Malcolm is a complete hand,” announced Emily.

  “A clever...” Lady Lilian started to correct her daughter, then smiled. “You are right, Emmie, he is a complete hand.” She went to the door and sneaked a peek into the hall. Returning, she sank into her chair. “Perhaps I flatter myself, but I do believe the wretched man hoped to be confined at Corycombe by bad weather.”

  “You don’t flatter yourself. He said he aspires to your company,” Mariette pointed out. “He admires you, ma’am.”

  “I wish he did not! Enough of ‘ma’am,’ Mariette. I could easily be your elder sister. Pray call me Lilian.”

  “Humph!” said Miss Thorne, starting to wind another ball of her new wool--mud brown as a change from mustard. “I hope you know what you are about.�
��

  Lilian was not listening. Lord Malcolm came in and she demanded, “Malcolm, is it really going to snow?”

  “My dear, I’m no weather-glass. I didn’t even go outside. I handed your importunate suitor over to Blount.” He strolled towards a window.

  “My suitor! Surely not!”

  “Your beau, then, though I don’t think it a word he cares for! Yes, the sky does look very like snow.”

  “Suppose Captain Aldrich is caught in a snowstorm? You had better send a message postponing his visit.”

  “I daresay he won’t start out if it is already snowing heavily. If it begins when he is on his way, I hardly think enough will fall in an hour to discommode him seriously.”

  “Perhaps not,” she said with unwonted uncertainty. “But if it starts to snow when he is here? I cannot let him go out into a snowstorm at night! I shall tell Mrs. Wittering to make up a bed.”

  “An excellent notion.”

  As she hurried out, Malcolm returned to his seat beside Mariette. Her reaction to Wareham’s arrival had reassured him that the baron was not his rival, but he wished he knew what the man had done to make her loathe him.

  “So you survived Wareham’s presence,” he said.

  “Yes, but he did not survive your brilliant manoeuvre!” She laughed--a gleam of white teeth between rosy lips--and her dark eyes sparkled. “Very neat.”

  “He dug the trap himself,” Malcolm disclaimed modestly, “and Lilian saw it before I did. He was too eager to deprive me of my hunt meet.”

  “Do you truly wish to attend a meet?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “I thought not. When Sir Nesbit talked about the hunt you did not seem precisely enthralled.” She looked puzzled. “But what was the nonsense about not riding beyond the first field? You told me you enjoyed galloping on the moor.”

  “I do. I was just provoking Wareham.”

  “Because he judged you by your waistcoat? Is that why you spoke that way while he was here, as if it were an effort hardly worth making? No, you were the same with everyone who has called.”