She had not departed then, had not disappeared as he sometimes feared she would. He was a man not given to fancy. But, he was all too aware that as his life had changed for the better, it could yet again alter for the worse. It had become a matter of importance to him to prevent that from happening.
He wandered the chamber, then sat down on a nearby chaise to think about the disappearances. Where had everyone gone? Was there some crisis of which Bowland neglected to advise him? It was unlikely, but so too was making calls in the infernal snow. His darkened gaze searched the room. The marquetry dressing table held Delia's brushes, the pillows of the sleigh bed displayed the indentation of her head. His hand clenched involuntarily, and he discovered under his fingers her silken nightdress. He removed his hand as though scalded, but regarded the lace and blue ribands with curious longing. The silk was as white as her skin. He lifted the gown in his hands and crushed it against him. Then he cast it across the chamber...for she might be his sister. The thoughts that occurred to him were surely more wicked than anything he had previously experienced in his life. He leapt to his feet and strode from the room without a backward glance.
He descended three flights of stairs and terrified the kitchen maid. He determined that Delia had called for hot water early, and that Morag Lochmaddy and Mrs. Inniskip were also gone out. Deep in thought, he wandered back up the stairs. He was standing in the front passage when simultaneously the door from the servants' hall and the street door opened.
Relief and anger warred in the earl as his guests and his servants entered. He allowed the expression on his face to silence Delia's happy greeting and Charles' attempt at a pleasantry.
They divested themselves of their outer wear in silence. Mrs. Inniskip and Morag Lochmaddy bore the snowy clothes away, exchanging an expressive look.
Wordlessly, Torgreave offered Delia his arm and without speaking, she accepted it. They mounted the staircase to the drawing room in silence with Charles close on their heels.
"Where were you?" the earl ground out after ushering Delia into the chamber. He impaled his brother with a stare.
"At divine services," Delia replied. She removed her bonnet with a return to composure. "It is Sunday."
She exchanged a smile with Charles who was apparently aware that his brother's manner had been caused by anxiety.
Rupert swung away from them. Embarrassment now warred with his fading concern. "I had forgot," he muttered.
"You cannot have been in the habit of remembering," Charles commented charitably, moving near the fire. "If you wish I will remind you next week."
"I should not object to accompany you," Torgreave managed.
"We should be pleased to have your company," Delia added, with a gentle smile. "Though your presence might upset the parishioners," she teased. "We might be constrained to attend Inniskip's chapel. She and Morag attended there today." She sat down near the fire.
He smiled, but not without effort. "My brother's is perhaps the only church I may attend without causing concern," he said. "Did I tell you, Charles, that it was a pleasure to hear your preaching?"
"I did hope you had enjoyed it," his brother murmured. His pleasant face reddened. He excused himself and withdrew.
Torgreave watched him go.
"I think I have understood that in England many younger sons take Holy Orders but care nothing for the Church. I do not have that impression of Charles."
Rupert was aware that she was striving for impartial conversation. Lounging in a crimson damask cover chair, he answered her gambit in a manner that prohibited disinterest. "He chose Holy Orders about the time I came to London, and very wisely. He was never pious, but always simply good, charitable, and deeply concerned for others. All the things I was not." He added the last without bitterness. "My father was very pleased, for the living at Manningford is a good one and he wished for Charles to be well provided. I believe he felt he could not rely on me to do so."
"Then he wronged you." Delia leaned forward and placed her hand on his dark blue sleeve. "I have a sense that you feel the late earl believed you beyond redemption."
Rupert said nothing, but stared woodenly across the room. He could feel the imprint of Delia's fingers on the long, rigid muscles in his arm. Outside it had begun to snow more heavily, and the room grew dim despite the candles already lit.
She continued, "Would not...could not...the late earl have disinherited you if he truly felt you were without courage, honour, and morals?"
"He could. He might have stripped me of all but the title. I confess I have wondered why he did not, given what he believed of me."
"It can only be that whatever he thought and said, he did not believe you unfit to inherit. Not in his heart."
Rupert met her eyes then. She had given him pause. Indeed, her words had rendered him speechless. It seemed she intended to say no more about the matter though.
"This morning -- did you fear that I had gone?" she returned to a teasing tone.
He answered her with sincerity in his voice. "I did."
"I will not go suddenly. Not without explanation and farewell," she said, the teasing gone as suddenly as it had come. "I promise it."
He lifted her hand to his lips, and let her see what was in his eyes.
***
It was only a few days after their attendance at services, that Charles said suddenly one snowy morning, "Delia, I must see Miss Slimbridge."
"Well, it was difficult to contend with the snow on Sunday. It must be worse now," she offered absently, studying the Edinburgh Review before her. The earl had left it for her upon his early departure to his club.
"I care nothing for that."
"In that event, you might call upon Lady Slimbridge, and hope to see Susannah." She lifted her gaze.
"Yes, but I wish you will come," he said. His youthful face was hopeful.
"Rupert said I should not." A frown creased her smooth brow.
"Please, you cannot be so unkind. It will make the world of difference for Slimbridge to know we are not a debauched and wicked family."
Delia hesitated to oppose Rupert's wishes, but could see no harm in the visit. Indeed much benefit might be derived. "But if I am presented as your cousin, and all goes well, what will happen if I am in fact your sister? If that later becomes generally known, how will it affect your plans?"
Charles hesitated only briefly. "We will appear at best to be foolish and at worst to be tricksters." He had apparently given the matter thought. "I cannot care about that, but I must do something. I must see her."
"Very well," she decided. She understood his feelings very well. "Have you their direction?"
He did, and it was only half of an hour later that they set out to pay the morning call. They walked, for though that exercise was difficult, driving was yet more so. Charles had to shake mounds of snowflakes from his beaver hat as they stood on the doorstep in North Audley Street.
They had not long to wait, but were quickly admitted to a sparsely decorated passage. From there they were led to an equally bland drawing room on the first floor.
Lady Slimbridge greeted them from near the window. She was a small woman with a bright, inquisitive look. She greeted the rector with the ease of long acquaintance, and accepted his introduction of Delia without a blink. She sent the footman for Miss Slimbridge, and drew Delia to a sopha. She wished, as she phrased it, a 'comfortable cose'.
Delia was agreeably surprised. The tyrannical disposition of Sir Thomas had led her to suppose Lady Slimbridge would be a faded cypher. On the contrary, she seemed an intelligent lady of uncommon good sense.
"My dear Susannah and the rector have a strong attachment." Her ladyship's tone seemed to question whether Delia knew of it. Charles had picked up a newspaper and was waiting for his beloved with ill-concealed impatience.
"My cousin has admitted me to his confidence," Delia confirmed. "And has told me Sir Thomas is sadly opposed."
"Not on Charles' own account," Lady Slimbridge disclai
med. "Well, he does think Susannah might do better than a second son, but he agrees that Charles is a fine young man. No it is his brother, the earl, to whom Sir Thomas objects."
Miss Susannah Slimbridge entered the room quietly, and the rector's face glowed, as she welcomed him. He drew her to the window that her mother had abandoned.
"The earl?" queried Delia, after greeting Miss Slimbridge. "He is even now my host. I may be accused of cousinly bias, but he is ever all that is proper and decorous."
"Indeed?" The other lady shifted her intent gaze from Delia's face. She regarded her daughter and the young man, near the window, eagerly speaking together. "But he has a terrible reputation for drink, dissipation and..."
"Much of it undeserved," Delia found herself angry over the ton's judgment of Torgreave. "His conduct is irreproachable, his affairs in good order, and his London house impeccable."
"You feel him wronged by gossip then?" Lady Slimbridge's astute gaze returned to Delia's face.
"I only know what I have observed," Delia said.
"And have your families always been close?"
Delia hesitated over her reply. She was relieved by the opening of the door. Her relief fled however, when the attitudes of her companions told her that the gentleman who entered was Sir Thomas Slimbridge. He was of middle height only, a narrow- visaged man with an aggressive manner.
He smiled unexpectedly sweetly at his wife, but paused at the sight of the rector. He scowled and muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath. Charles stood abruptly and reluctantly left Miss Slimbridge to attend upon Delia.
"Well, my dear, there you are, " said Lady Slimbridge brightly, disregarding her husband's rudeness. "And here is the rector come to call, and his cousin Miss Tyninghame."
"Ha!" exclaimed Sir Thomas, as he extended two fingers to Charles. He bowed to Delia. "I can see the family resemblance."
Delia stiffened and she sensed uneasiness in Charles.
"Do you mind that portrait in the Hall at Manningford, my lady?" Sir Thomas questioned his wife. "Miss Tyninghame has the look of the third earl."
Delia relaxed.
Charles sighed audibly, and rushed into speech. "I had thought you still at Manningford, sir."
"I daresay that's why you're here," Sir Thomas returned unkindly. "As you see I finished our withdrawal from that house. Your brother is welcome to it. Perhaps it will keep him out of mischief, for it needs considerable work. If he has the brass to do it."
Charles flushed at the insult to his brother.
Delia surged to her feet on a wave of anger. Her instincts were to protect and defend Torgreave even in conversation.
"We must be going," she said to Charles. "The earl expects our return."
He looked bewildered for his brother knew nothing of their excursion. She shot him a severe look and he managed a nod.
Lady Slimbridge seemed aware that her husband had given offense. Though she did not try to detain her guests, she said hurriedly, "Miss Tyninghame, we are to hold a small party in three weeks. A preliminary, so you might say, for dear Susannah's come out this Season. Would you honour us with your presence?"
Delia relented of her glacial manner, at least to the ladies. "I should be delighted, but I will be from town. I shall be returning to Edinburgh."
With that, they made their farewells, and with icy bows to Sir Thomas, they quit the room.
"You now have met my opposition," Charles said despondently as they retraced their steps through the snow to Grosvenor Street.
"Lady Slimbridge is in no way opposed to your attachment," Delia pointed out. "With three daughters and a young son, she is too wise to object to such a suitable match. Sir Thomas wishes to be overly nice, and show himself a paragon. We shall have to change his mind about Rupert. We will."
Charles would not be consoled. "Perhaps..."
* * *
"Dearest Aunt Barbara, You will be surprised to learn that I take Coach for Edinburgh tomorrow, and that the Earl accompanies me. You must not be Alarmed, but much has happened that I cannot explain by letter and I am in need of your Counsel."
CHAPTER FIVE
The snow remained for another two weeks, replenished frequently by sudden substantial falls. Even Charles' enthusiasm for exploration was dimmed by the weather. He and the earl struggled out and about their affairs unenthusiastically and infrequently.
Delia remained much at home in Grosvenor Street. She made the drawing room her own domain. She strewed it with her favourite books and her silks, and occupied the writing desk frequently to maintain her correspondence. Each day she practiced upon the pianoforte. When Major Rhyle brought her a present of music, her thanks were profuse. His visits, and those of Mr. Taunton and Captain Finglas, were always welcome diversions.
Delia was occupied with her sketchpad one day when the earl returned home. He entered hastily, and thrust a careless hand through his snow-wet hair. He visibly relaxed on encountering her presence and Mrs. Lochmaddy's absence. Morag had made no secret of her disapproval that they lingered on in London. She was deeply disappointed that they had delayed their return to Scotland.
Delia surveyed Rupert affectionately, for she would deny to no one that she had conceived a great tenderness for both brothers. They were already an essential part of her life and their care for her touched her heart. She would admit no other emotions, even to herself.
He returned her inspection, but she could not endure the intensity of his regard. She looked down at the sketch in her hands, a quivering anxiety replacing her content.
Clearing his throat, he said, "We must journey to Edinburgh, as soon as the weather ameliorates. I find the ambiguity of our situation -- the uncertainty of our relationship -- unbearable." His voice was hoarse, quite unlike his usual rich tone.
"Intolerable," she reiterated softly. "But I think answers will elude us there also. My parents spent their marriage at Carvosway and to canvass the people who knew them will be next to impossible. My aunt is possibly our best hope. Perhaps the only hope."
He acquiesced curtly and stripped off his dark blue merino coat. She now recognized that this was a characteristic gesture. It seemed he could not bear to be constrained by the close fit of fashion's dictates. She had never questioned him on the matter. She doubted that he was aware of the habit.
She made a determined effort to lighten the atmosphere in the drawing room. "Now tell me what you think of this," she said.
She offered her sketch, a simple rendering of a graceful bridge over a peaceful water with a spire in the distance, and a tree before.
"It is very pleasant." Torgreave cast his coat aside and took the book. He responded to her diversion equably. "This is a new departure is it not? Have I seen you sketch before?"
"Perhaps not." She was careful not to touch his hand as she regained her work. She could not with composure entertain contact with his taut skin and hard muscle. "It is my preparation for needlework, you see. I sketch what I wish to stitch, and apply watercolours to guide my choice of silks, before I begin to translate it to fabric."
"That is most ambitious." His sincerity was obvious. "And the results are always very beautiful. You are talented." He bent and picked up her reticule from a chair he wished to occupy. "Where shall I put this?" he queried. He paused, weighing the embroidered trifle in his hand. "Surely it is very heavy, for a lady's bag?"
Delia hesitated in putting away her charcoal. She was surprised at his comment. "I cannot think why you say so, there is nothing...ah," she remembered. With a sly smile, she took the silk purse from him. "Should you like to see why?" she teased.
He seated himself. "I would," he admitted.
She emptied its contents, one by one. "There is my handkerchief, my vinaigrette, my locket...ah that's where it was hidden..."
He smiled at her interjection.
She hesitated before withdrawing her hand a last time. "and my skean dhu."
"Good God," he muttered. He stared at the small dagger in its lea
ther sheath as she laid it on the table before him. "You have been carrying a dagger in your reticule for this month and more of our acquaintance? Did you think yourself in so much danger from the rake Torgreave then?"
Annoyed, Delia thrust her possessions back in the embroidered silk.
"Must you regard everything so personally?" she demanded. "It has naught to do with you. The skean dhu was given me by my aunt's friend, Scott. He said every Scotswoman should have one on such a journey, for protection. He showed me how to use it to advantage too. I have given it no thought since arriving in London."
"My commonsense deserts me where you are concerned." Rupert seized her agitated hands, and stilled them against his hard chest.
She could feel the steady beat of his heart under her fingers. She shivered with an emotion she only half-understood, but greatly feared. Her wide eyes searched his bleak face, until he released her abruptly.
He strode the length of the room away from her and then returned. His mood was altered. "Charles tells me you did wait upon Lady Slimbridge recently," he said. He reseated himself in the same chair.
Delia was still shaken from their contact. She forced herself to meet his indigo gaze calmly. "We did," she murmured. "I judged that it would do no harm, and might do some good."
"Sir Thomas was less than flattering in his opinion of me, I understand?" Rupert drew a long idle finger through the silks tumbled on the table between them.
"He was. Your past exploits weigh heavily with him. He seems to have little faith in your reformation."
He laughed shortly. "Perhaps the man is more wise than I credited," he drawled.
The door opened abruptly. Instantly the earl stood and stepped to the fire.
When Morag entered, Delia was again putting away her charcoal. "Mr. Hugh Taunton, and his sister are come," the Scotswoman announced.
"How delightful!" Delia responded without consulting Torgreave.
Mrs. Lochmaddy ushered in the guests.
Miss Aurora Taunton was a slight, fair, delicate creature, introduced laconically by her brother. She was possessed, Delia soon discovered, of an iron will at variance with her appearance. As well, she had a busy tongue, and she burst into speech.
The Rake's Reflection Page 10
