by Amy Lake
A burly footman scratched at the door. “Mum?”
“James, take Miss Phillips to Miss Fitzpatrick’s room.” Mrs. Tiggs took another look at the governess, who was stirring again. “I believe she’ll need t’ be carried. You can do that, can’t you James?”
“Mum?” The footman looked confused. “Miz Fitzpatrick?”
“Now, James,” the housekeeper said, as if speaking to a child, “you remember Miss Fitzpatrick, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Yes, mum.”
“And you do remember where her room is?”
The man looked unhappy. “Miz Fitzpatrick ain’t here no more.”
Mrs. Tiggs nodded. “Yes, quite right you are. Very good, James. But if she was here, do you remember where she would be?”
“Oh. Oh, yes, mum.” James nodded vigorously.
“Good. Take Miss Phillips t’ that room, do you understand? I’ll follow you in a minute.”
“Yes, mum.”
The footman picked up the governess as if she was a delicate piece of porcelain, nearly weightless, and left. Mrs. Tiggs followed, pausing at the door to send Lord Quentin a speaking look.
“James is a good lad. He wouldn’t do anything t’ annoy Miss Phillips, if you take my meaning, milord.”
“Ah.” Charles nodded.
“And I’ll see that she gets some nice hot tea.”
“Something to eat, too, Mrs. Tiggs,”
“Yes, milord.”
She left, and Lord Quentin was not to see Helène Phillips again for the remainder of that day.
* * * *
Amanda Detweiler reclined on the fine brocade of a chaise lounge and watched Lady Pamela Sinclair put the final touches to her toilette.
“London is simply too dreary this time of year,” she remarked. “Everyone swathed in layer after layer of scarves and smelling of wet wool.”
“Indeed,” said Lady Pamela, “Would you have them freeze, instead?”
Lady Detweiler considered this seriously. “I believe I might,” she said finally. “A score fewer bird-witted females would have made Lady Jersey’s musicale last night entirely more bearable.”
Pam laughed. “I must beg to differ. With Sally’s choice of a soprano, last night was destined to be intolerable.”
“Mmm. I concede the point.”
“But it’s only a few more days in town. We’ll be at Luton Court by Sunday.”
“I understand that Charles Quentin will be joining the party this year,” said Amanda.
“As he does every other year.”
“The countess said he may have arrived there already, in fact. On his way to Tavelstoke.”
“Mmm,” said Pamela. She looked at herself in the mirror, frowned, and started removing hairpins. White-gold hair fell down in heavy waves around the faultless oval of her face.
“I have always thought him as handsome as any man of our acquaintance,” continued Amanda. “Excepting the Earl of Ketrick, perhaps.”
“Mmm.” Patiently, Pamela arranged layer after layer of silken curls atop her head, fixing them in place with the pins. The reflection of her wide, aquamarine eyes stared back at her from the mirror. “Beastly things.”
“Men?”
“Hairpins.”
“Ah.” Lady Detweiler pursed her lips, and blew out her breath in annoyance. “Pamela.”
“Yes, darling?”
“It’s been almost a year.”
“A year?”
“You know very well what I mean. Edward and Claire were married over a year ago. You’ve been avoiding the male of the species ever since.”
“Surely not.” Lady Pam turned around and flashed Amanda a mischievous grin. “I assure you, I still find men perfectly fascinating–”
“Then why on earth–”
“–in theory.”
Amanda gave an unladylike snort. “Men are no good in theory, my dear. Only in the flesh.”
Pam laughed. “Have you been talking to my sister-in-law again?”
“Hmph,” said Lady Detweiler. She shook her head at Pamela. “Well, I do know one thing. If you can’t be bothered with Charles Quentin, I’m sure there will be more than one woman at that houseparty to take up the slack. And I assure you, their interests will not be theoretical.”
“Mmm,” said Lady Pamela.
* * * *
Lord and Lady Sinclair kept city hours even at Luton, and Charles judged that he was not too late for dinner. He arrived in the huge, Pompeiian-red dining room to find Jonathan and Celia chatting with Viscount Dreybridge and his young bride. The Viscount was a distant cousin of the Sinclairs, if Lord Quentin’s memory served. And there was Lord Burgess, making calf-eyes at a voluptuous beauty. Ah–Lucinda Blankenship. Lord Quentin smiled, thinking that Jerry was well on his way to making a cake of himself–as usual.
Several other guests were scattered about the room, a number of whom he knew by sight but not acquaintance. Of the ones he did–well, there was Lady Harkins, she of the formidable bosom and sharp tongue. A true dragon, she was; widowed these twenty years and spending every moment of it the soul of propriety and the terror of every debutante. Lord Quentin could remember Lady Harkins’s comments on the occasion of Jonathan and Celia’s marriage, and wondered how she came to be invited to Luton. Some connection of the late Lord Harkins, no doubt.
Charles wandered over to the small table du vin, which was set with a sparkling assortment of crystal decanters. Two more Sinclair cousins–Sir Clarence Frost and Lady Jenkins–stood chatting by the fire, but it seemed that the marquess’s younger sister had not yet arrived at Luton. Charles, who claimed an acquaintance with Lady Pamela Sinclair through his long friendship with Jonathan, was disappointed. Lady Pam shared his disinclination to make ton society the whole of life, and Charles realized that he had been counting on her presence for intelligent conversation.
Soft laughter from Miss Blankenship floated across the room, and Charles turned to see Lord Burgess whispering into her ear. This was quite improper, earning a glare from both Lady Harkins and the marchioness, the latter displeased to find the interest of any male fixed elsewhere than on herself.
Lady Sinclair was easily roused to competitiveness, especially on her home turf. Perhaps her attention would now be diverted to Lord Burgess, thought Charles, feeling an odd mixture of relief and concern. Celia’s flirtatious attentions were flattering, of course, and for the most part harmless.
Except when she was drinking. Charles had no desire to be the cause of a row between husband and wife; nor, he should think, did Lord Burgess.
The marchioness looked his way, and her eyes narrowed. Her gown was a clinging, high-waisted silk that claimed only a wisp of material for its bodice, and the candlelight cast intriguing shadows on the fabric of the skirt, faintly outlining the curves beneath. Charles reflected, once again, that Lady Sinclair could make more out of the edge of propriety than any other female he knew. She held his gaze, giving him a slow smile that Charles felt down to his toes. Damn the woman, anyway. He certainly had no intention of taking up where they had left off before she became the Marchioness of Luton. No matter how tempting it might be.
“Lord Quentin,” purred Lady Sinclair. “Do join us.”
From Celia, in her current state, the invitation sounded more like a threat. Charles smiled blandly and poured himself a glass of whatever wine was closest to hand. In truth, he should be damning the drink rather than the marchioness. Celia could be volatile and jealousy incarnate–but she was no tramp. Indeed, since her marriage to his close friend Jonathan, Charles had seen a more vulnerable side to the marchioness, and watched as a touching loyalty grew toward her sometimes difficult husband.
Was her loyalty returned? Jonathan loved his second wife, Charles was sure, but recently–with the estate taking so much more of his time–it had seemed a cool, absent-minded sort of affection. Which was typical of Jonathan’s nature, to be sure, but hardly of Celia’s.
Perhaps it was the lack of fervor in
her husband’s approach that had driven her back to the wine, and to this distracted prowling for men. Perhaps Celia was still convinced she didn’t quite deserve her good fortune . . .
Celia had been the young widow of an obscure baronet when she married Jonathan Sinclair, himself a widower with two children. It had been a whirlwind, tempestuous romance–the talk of London society that season, and Celia the subject of much acid comment from disappointed mamas.
A shockingly forward, penniless baroness! And the Sinclair fortune–oh, my dear, it’s too much to endure.
The new Lady Sinclair had a certain reputation to overcome, as well–at least in certain quarters. Lord Quentin knew, as did a fair percentage of the gentlemen of the ton, that the marchioness had not entered into her present marriage without first enjoying what several of the more vigorous London bucks had to offer. Charles, to some current regret, had been one of them. Returning from three years of war, the stench of blood, gunpowder, and Spanish dust not yet erased from his mind, he had been ready for a taste of the first ripe peach to fall from the tree.
And Celia had been at her glorious, sensual best that London season. They had enjoyed a number of... encounters together, and even now Lord Quentin had flashes of memory that left his heart pounding and his mouth dry. He wondered how the marquess had survived the past year and a half. Celia was a tigress.
“Charles, I’m becoming quite vexed with you,” said Celia, pouting that he had not joined them. “Do you know, Lord Burgess, that Lord Quentin once refused to dance with me at the Duke of Lincolnshire’s ball?”
“Surely not,” said Lord Burgess.
“ ’Tis true. He insisted that Jonathan have the second waltz, even when everyone
knows–”
As Celia prattled on, Miss Blankenship caught his eye and sent him a wink. Impudent chit! thought Charles, but he couldn’t help a small smile. Lucinda Blankenship was near to a hoyden, and since she had become engaged to Lord Netherfield–
“Charles, old man. I hear you’re on your way to Tavelstoke within the sennight,” said Lord Burgess, interrupting his thoughts.
Charles heard Celia’s sharp intake of breath.
“Indeed,” he replied. “My father’s recent illness left affairs unsettled at the estate, and the steward has requested my assistance.”
“But surely that can wait until after the holidays,” said the marchioness, her eyes glittering, her lips set in a rosebud pout. “And Tavelstoke is so close–you could be there inside of the day.”
“I’m afraid not, my lady,” said Charles. “But if all goes well, I should be able to return shortly after Christmas.”
“After Christmas–! But Charles!” began Lady Sinclair.
“Now, don’t fret, my love,” said the marquess, joining the conversation. Lord Quentin thought he heard a stifled snort from Miss Blankenship. “I’m sure Lord Quentin will return as soon as matters are settled.”
“But–”
“The earl now resides in London, does he not?” Lady Jenkins broke in smoothly over Celia’s pique, and Lord Quentin offered her a grateful smile.
“Yes,” he told her. “My father and his wife are greatly content these days, but his health is still poor. They prefer a quiet life in town.”
Lady Jenkins, like most of the ton, probably knew all there was to know about the Earl of Tavelstoke’s recent history. “I’m so glad to hear he is happy,” she told Charles, “They both deserve every bit of it.”
“Indeed,” said Miss Blankenship. She turned to the marchioness with an ingenuous smile. “As you know yourself, Lady Sinclair, it is marvelous fortune for an older widow to find such joy in a second marriage.”
Lord Burgess was seized with a sudden fit of coughing, and Celia rounded on Lucinda with poorly concealed fury.
“And what, pray tell, would you know about–”
There was a loud knock at the door. “Dinner is served, milord,” announced Telford,
And not a moment too soon, thought Lord Quentin, hearing several faint sighs of relief. Charles was beginning to realize that his week at Luton Court might prove less relaxing than he had hoped.
CHAPTER THREE
The governess shall have no object of more than the most basic of accommodations.
“Miss?”
A soft voice broke into the last moments of sleep, and Helène woke to the unbelievable, mouth-watering aroma of hot chocolate. In those first moments she had no idea where she was.
“Miss?”
Helène pushed herself up in the bed. A young girl stood in the doorway to the room, holding a pot of chocolate and a plate of cheese scones. At the sight of the scones, one thing was clear to Helène.
She was no longer in her father’s house.
“Miss, I’m ever so sorry t’ be wakin’ you, but Mrs. Tiggs said as what you must be hungry–”
Mrs. Tiggs?
“–an’ she tried t’ get you t’ eat summat last night, but you was so tired–”
Last night?
“–an’ I was t’ see you got these.”
“Thank... thank you,” said Helène.
The girl bobbed a quick curtsey, set the chocolate and scones on the nightstand, and left.
She must be a parlour-maid, thought Helène. But where am I? Feeling the scratch of wool on her skin, she realized that she was still wearing the brown merino dress. Someone had removed her shoes and covered her with a goosedown duvet during the night, but she had no memory of any of it.
Helène looked around. A small room, but pleasant enough, with two large windows set into one wall, and a washstand between them. The windows faced east, she thought, from the sunlight pouring in. A small rug covered a portion of the well-scrubbed floor, and the bed was fitted with a decent set of linens and a plump duvet.
Sheer bliss, thought Helène, bouncing slightly on her bed, and noting that the mattress was firm and not the least bit lumpy.
Where was she? Deciding that the matter would be best addressed on a full stomach, Helène directed her attention to the scones. Her eyes closed at the first bite, threatening tears. The scone, still warm, was the best food she had tasted for a year, and two or three more quickly disappeared. Then she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat for several, rapturous minutes, sipping hot chocolate. A rather unpleasant, muddy-looking bag sat on the floor next to the washstand, and Helène frowned, wondering where she had seen it before.
Her portmanteau. With that realization, memories of the past two days flooded back. The coach ride from London. The long walk to Luton Court. And... and a gentleman on horseback.
“Oh, dear,” moaned Helène. “My clothes.” She sprang from the bed and almost fell, the room spinning around her.
The dizziness–an aftermath of hunger–was a recently familiar sensation, and Helène lowered herself to the floor, where she sat, head in hands, until it passed. Eventually she felt well enough to explore what might be left of her portmanteau. She crouched down at the side of the bag and gingerly pried it open. The two nightgowns on top were smudged with dirt and showed some evidence of the stallion’s hooves, but, to her relief, the grey wool walking dress and rose sarcanet appeared intact. She looked around for a place to hang them, and noticed a large mahogany tallboy against the far wall.
Lady Sinclair must expect her governess to be well-dressed, thought Helène. Her own selection of clothing would be dwarfed in the dresser, but it couldn’t be helped. Pretty is as pretty does, she could almost hear her father saying. Helène suspected that this sentiment would be lost on the Marchioness of Luton.
* * * *
Lord Quentin was usually at his best in the early morning, but he had awoken today in an irritable mood, his head aching from a great deal too much brandy the night before. Whatever had possessed him to plan this extended stay at Luton Court? It had seemed like a good idea at the time–a short respite with friends before the work awaiting him at Tavelstoke. A respite–ha! How could he have been such a fool? Jonathan Sincla
ir he counted among his oldest and dearest of friends. But the marchioness...
Celia presented a problem. Charles inhaled deeply at the sudden, energizing memory of their latest encounter, only a few hours earlier, in this very room.
He and Jonathan had talked deep into the previous night. For the most part the marquess spoke and Lord Quentin listened, as was usual between the two of them, but at one point Charles attempted, cautiously, to raise the subject of Celia’s drinking.
Jonathan had seemed surprised, and hesitant to recognize the marchioness’s impulse toward the bottle when she was unhappy or bored.
“Everyone drinks too much in the country,” had been his casual response. “I shouldn’t be too concerned.”
Had he truly not noticed Celia’s behavior? Charles could only conclude that Jonathan had immersed himself in estate business to the exclusion of other matters. This was not unusual for the owner of an extensive property, of course, but perhaps other men did not have wives as demanding as Celia.
After the marquess retired Charles had remained in the library to finish off a decanter of brandy, and finally–long past midnight, and long past the time he would have preferred to be asleep–he had made his way quietly to his room. The late hour should have sufficed to avoid a further confrontation with Lady Sinclair. But no sooner had he closed the door to his chambers–
Charles threw back the covers and bounded from bed, almost upsetting the steaming pot of tea left by his valet some minutes before. He jerked open his wardrobe door, feeling it was essential that he be out of bed and dressed immediately. A ride was what he needed. A nice, long gallop in the early morning cold.
He had discovered Celia Sinclair in his bed last night, smiling and–as he was shortly to understand–unclothed.
“Charles. Finally,” the marchioness had cooed. “You can’t imagine what I’ve suffered, waiting here for you.”
