She was met with several curt nods, one or two quizzing glasses and a general atmosphere of disinterest. Since she cared not a rap for such a reception—why should she?—she moved to take her place up with her charges. Kitty was already tucking heartily into a breakfast of kippers, eggs and anchovies, whilst Tom seemed to be playing with his boiled brains, rather than consuming them, as was, perhaps, the idea.
Anne chuckled. “Good morning, my angels! I wonder if it is at all the thing for us to be eating down here?”
Kitty swallowed with relish. “Why shouldn’t it be?”
“You are far from out, Katherine, and these young men...”
“... are old and disgusting enough to be my grandfathers!”
“Kitty!” It was hard to admonish the outrageous creature when the gist of her words was horribly true.
Tom pushed his plate away and declared that brains were not all they were cracked up to be. Anne had to concur gravely.
“I hope that woman does not come in to dine; my appetite is quite ruined as it is.” Tom scowled fiercely and buried his head in his bowl. Anne was not left to wonder about whom he meant, though she did wonder if she would be forced to suffer Lady Caroline’s condescension. She was not left wondering long, for with an air for the dramatic, Lady Caroline sailed in and took her place up at the head of the table. She was wearing a daring ankle-length morning dress of white sarcenet with a crimson sash and a demitrain to match. Her feet, of course, were daintily encased in a pair of Grecian sandals, the very epitome of elegant perfection. Anne wondered how long it had taken her dresser to achieve the perfect golden ringlets that framed her pretty oval face.
“Cat!” she admonished herself. It was hateful of her to be jealous, but just thinking that she and Lord Edgemere had enjoyed an intimate ... but no! It would not do to reflect upon such a subject.
The gentlemen rose at once to greet her, and the high, tinkling laughter grated on Anne’s sensitive ears. She had just identified a waft of Lady Caroline’s exotic perfume—a pungent confection of orchid and tea roses, she conjectured—when there was a loud scream.
“Good heavens, what is the matter?” Anne wondered.
Kitty started to giggle, and Tom, suspiciously straight-faced, stared out of the window.
“There is a mouse in my reticule! Oh, my God, I shall swoon!” And swoon she did, neatly into the arms of Lord Dell, who was most conveniently situated to her right. The offending creature looked more startled, if possible, than the injured party. It scuttled across the table at breakneck speed, never once stopping to nibble on some of the finer examples of Mrs. Tibbet’s repast.
Anne glared at the youngsters, for the culprits did not leave much to the imagination. Then she marched up to Lady Dashford, inquired whether anyone had smelling salts—none had—and so, as a precautionary measure, poured a jug of deliciously cold water over the dramatically unconscious countenance. This instantly revived the golden-headed beauty, but did nothing for the state of her temper.
“What in tarnation...” She opened her eyes and wiped the drenched ringlets off her face. Then, catching sight of a rival beauty—for, though Anne had ceased seeing it, a beauty she undeniably was—she gave a little gasp and sat bolt upright in her seat.
“Who the devil are you?”
Anne would not normally have answered. She did not care to be addressed in that particular tone. She did, however, remember her station, so swallowed a vast quantity of her pride and made a suitable bob. “I am Anne Derringer, madam ...”
“And who invited you?” Lady Caroline took a sweeping glance at the rather worn blue dimity with its outmoded petticoat front and the simple, unadorned mobcap that Lord Edgemere abhorred and Anne alone deemed appropriate.
“I believe Lord Edgemere did, ma’am. I am the governess.”
“And do you think it is quite proper to be dining below stairs? I am sure his lordship will think it most strange in you! I shall tell him at the first opportunity!”
Anne’s eyes flashed, but she lowered her gaze and was silent. This action infuriated Lady Caroline all the more, for it afforded her the lowering opportunity of viewing the darkest, longest and altogether most sultry lashes she had ever seen. That they adorned Miss Derringer’s and not her own sweet face seemed heinously unfair. This crime, coupled with the fact that it was obviously the Edgemere brats who had disturbed her peace, made her more wrathful than ever.
“Are they in your charge?” She pointed at the pair of mirthful siblings who found the sight of Lady Caroline, drenched to the bone, too amusing not to laugh.
Anne nodded, gesturing to them slightly.
“I trust you will see to it that they are well punished for their antics.”
“Indeed, I shall, your ladyship. As a penance both Kitty and Thomas shall offer you their profoundest apologies.”
The double meaning—that apologizing to her was a penance—was not lost to the sharp-witted Caroline.
She frowned, but concentrated on the now scowling children.
“My dear Miss... Derringer, was it? I hope you mean to do more than simply make them apologize! If you prefer, I shall attend to their punishment myself.”
Anne forced her eyes upward. They met Caroline’s coldly. “What would you have them do? Scrub the floors?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, woman! Peers of the realm do not undertake menial tasks!”
“What, then? A spell in the corner?” Anne just managed to keep the scorn from her tone. The gentlemen with quizzing glasses were eyeing her avidly, and a third, she noticed, was leaning interestedly upon a door frame. He seemed vaguely familiar, but faced with the situation before her, Miss Derringer could be forgiven for not quite placing him.
“They shall each receive a well-deserved thrashing. I assure you, Miss Derringer, it will be a week at least before either can take their place at a table, never mind try any more ridiculous tricks.”
Kitty gasped, and Tom stopped smiling. Two pairs of beseeching eyes were turned on Anne. Lady Caroline shot each of them a satisfied glance, then smiled at her audience.
“I am perfectly certain that if my dear Robert were here, he would agree entirely. A little painful discipline is essential to the moral fortitude of young ones. Indeed, I have heard him threaten the whip on several instances during my little visits to this estate. I speak the truth, Thomas, do I not?”
“Yes, but he is only teasing. He never means it!”
“Tush, child! You are merely being cowardly to avoid a well-deserved whipping. You may both repair to your chambers until—”
“Excuse me, ma’am, the children are in my charge. They shall do as I say.” Interested eyes focused, for the first time, almost entirely on the unspeakably forward governess. If the situation had been any different, Anne, naturally retiring, would have wished to sink through the floor. Now, however, her demeanor was rigid with controlled fury.
There was a faint titter and a curl of the lips from Lady Caroline. “And what do you say?”
Anne ignored her coldly. “Tom and Kitty, make your apologies. We have wasted too much time on this nonsense already. In the future, we shall dine in the nursery. The company, I feel, is less offensive.”
There was an outraged gasp from the crowd. The golden-haired sylph looked daggers at the beleaguered Miss Derringer.
“I shall ensure your dismissal without a character for that! ”
Anne nodded. “So be it, ma’am: I take my orders from Lord Edgemere. If that is his will, I shall leave upon the instant.”
“I shall write to him, then. He shall be home this evening, for he is engaged today on a most interesting enterprise.” Anne thought of the diamonds and was uncomfortable. She doubted whether the eighth earl would wish his parting gift to be made public knowledge.
Caroline, however, seemed set on baiting her. She was threatened, perhaps, by the trim, statuesque figure that comported herself with such careless grace. Governesses were meant to be colourless creatures that faded, at all t
imes, into the background. They did not challenge their betters or selfishly turn all the heads in the room.
Lord Willoughby Rothbart—Anne recalled one of the gentlemen from her debacle in London—was regarding her with the interest of a seasoned connoisseur. No doubt Lady Caroline resented his defection as much as she did. But enough of this appalling scene! She must stand on her dignity and escort her charges from the room. Eating below stairs had been, as she feared, a dreadful mistake.
Miss Derringer bestowed an all inclusive curtsy on those gathered, secured a mumbled apology from the miscreants and schooled herself to depart sedately from the room. She was shaking inside, hating, hating, hating the beautiful Lady Dashford. To think that woman had ambitions of becoming the countess Edgemere! No wonder the children were in a taking.
She turned to leave. The children, for once, were following meekly behind her. Now, if the gentleman in the tasselled Hessians and the padded red riding coat would just desist from leaning against the door frame... oh, God! Anne herself felt close to a faint. No wonder he had disturbed her consciousness earlier.
The man, with his distinctive dark moustaches and faint, almost imperceptible swagger, was none other than Sir Archibald Dalrymple. He smiled mockingly and removed the olive silk top hat from his head. Anne was not deceived. Sir Archibald, kind enough once to make her an offer, was likely, after this spectacle, to make her quite another. He was, after all, a notorious rake. It was all Miss Derringer needed to complete her morning. She bit her lip, then looked away. Perhaps the cut direct would work its silent message. In the meanwhile, she would heed Lady Caroline’s ill-conceived advice and stay well away from the strange assortment of house party guests.
Eleven
The offices of Messrs. Wiley and Clark were satisfactorily bustling. Mr. Wiley was engaged in calculating several very pleasing profit margins, whilst his partner, the younger and slightly more debonair Mr. Clark, entertained some rich and potentially viable clients in the inner chamber.
His heart was not in it, though, for Tuesday was his half day and he was planning, when the interview ended, to make an impromptu trip out of London.
At almost precisely the moment he contemplated this proposition, Lord Robert Carmichael, the eighth Earl Edgemere and a man very much in Ethan’s thoughts, paced the Aubusson rug of his town lodging and glanced lingeringly at the two pieces of correspondence that had obligingly come to hand that day. Forgotten on his desk lay a small velvet pouch. To the collector, it contained two pieces of interest. A necklace of finest blue white diamonds and a ring. Strangely, it was the ring that was the greater of the two prizes. It was set with a flawless ruby the size of a wren’s egg. Unfortunately, being a family heirloom, it was not for sale. It was the betrothal ring of the seventh Countess Carmichael and the six countesses before her.
Robert ignored these articles and contemplated the marble bust of Minerva, goddess of learning. Both letters had been a revelation to him. One had satisfied curiosity, and the other had opened his eyes to the bleakness of that which could have been his future. How he could ever have been beguiled by Caroline’s fulsome flattery and equally fulsome figure? It was pointless thinking on past pleasures. They were well and truly over, especially since he was in receipt of this latest outrage. He looked at the letter again, though by now he knew it off pat. Breach of promise. Breach of promise! He was outraged.
The woman really stooped to the depths. For all he knew, he had never even proposed that night. He was forced to believe her word, for there had not been a sober thought in his head at the time. Now he suspected she may have been dealing in false coin, but there was no way of proving it. If she took her allegations to the world, she would probably find enough sympathizers in the haut ton to get away with it. There were many who envied the young Lord Carmichael his rank, his position and yes, his palpably athletic good looks.
A court of law would throw it out, out of hand—there had been no exchange of rings, no formal declarations, no banns posted. But he had been seen languishing after her on several occasions. At all the fashionable squeezes he had begged for a second waltz, sat several of the dances out when she was unavailable, called a gentleman to account when he had had the temerity to solicit her hand three times—quite beyond what was permissible, of course. Good lord, what a halfling he had been!
There would have been no question of his intentions had she been virtuous. Had she been virtuous, however, he would never have been in this coil. It was she who had taken a late night hack to his apartments and offered herself to him quite brazenly. It was only later—very much later—that he had realized he was not the first to benefit from such favours. Yet, in the eyes of society, Lady Caroline Dashford was all that was amiable, charming and proper.
No less than two patronesses of Almacks had offered her vouchers and introduced her to personages as high as the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Cumberland and even the rather bluff Lord Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. It would be her word against his, and despite the people who would undoubtedly support him, his name would forever be besmirched. He would be labeled as a “jilt” behind fans. Quite intolerable. Particularly now that he was, quite seriously, considering the matrimonial state.
He would be a cad, though, if he offered for Miss Derringer under such a cloud. People would naturally regard her with suspicion and active distrust, attributing the earl’s supposed change of heart to her, rather than to the brazen lies Caroline was ready to disseminate. And if he gave her the wretched diamonds he had purchased from Christopher’s that morning? She would use them against him for certain. As proof of breach, or, realizing that he was susceptible to the threat of breach, as the first in a long list of such expensive demands. Her requirements would quite probably be endless.
The second letter caused his brow to clear and a little smile to play about his mouth. The inquiries at Whitehall, though tedious, had borne fruit. His curiosity about his intriguing governess was both piqued and satisfied. She was, as he had always recognized, a true lady of quality. It was fortunate that she had been educated at Miss Mannering’s Seminary for young ladies; however, her father and her brother, for all their noble birth, could hardly have been accounted in that category.
The Honourable Sir Marlborough Derringer had, by all accounts, frittered away a countryseat, a remarkably well endowed stable, a respectable fortune and several rather lavish country homes into the bargain. This he had done not by any particular genius or wit, but by his remarkable skill at losing every wager he was inclined to take, his inclination for trumperies and opera dancers and his singular lack of interest in the management of his estate. He had died, as he lived, at the losing end of an argument.
He had challenged Sir Archibald Dalrymple to a duel over the cut of his Carrick coat, averring that the garment was obviously not in Weston’s style. It had, he announced, far too many capes for either comfort or fashion. Sir Archibald might have permitted the issue of comfort to pass. But fashion? He was a notable arbiter and would not stomach the insult. Two days later, Sir Marlborough was dead. It was an unfortunate circumstance, for Sir Archibald, a notoriously erratic shot, had been aiming merely for the foot.
Anne’s situation was in no way improved by this development, for whilst her brother was not as palpably foolish as her father, he was decidedly more calculating. He had recalled her from London mid-season and introduced her to Sir Archibald, who was inclined, after the incident, to harbour some slight remorse. As soon as he laid eyes on the untried beauty, however, the lecherous rake had intimated he would do her the favour of marriage. He had hinted, even, that some of the family’s more pressing debts of honour would be scotched.
Anne had been horrified and steadfast in her refusal. Her brother had washed his hands of her and passed her on to her cousin, Lady Somerford. There, at least, she would not be a burden on his rapidly diminishing finances. According to his sources, Anne had had at least one further concrete offer of marriage and several other rather more dubious off
ers. She had accepted none, however, and settled, as many of her class did, to a life of untrammelled but genteel drudgery. The rest was history, but for the information now in Lord Carmichael’s possession. He looked it over curiously.
What could have possessed his love to throw away her small competence on such a harebrained venture? Not gambling, exactly, but speculating on ’change was nonetheless notoriously risky. Somehow, though he knew she had strength of character, a steely resolve, a quirkish sense of humour and an almost fatalistic sense of truth, he did not think Anne was irresponsibly impulsive. Not unless there was some other reason driving her actions. He looked again at his papers.
Ah! His brow cleared. The wretched ship was called Polaris. That would have accounted for it. He smiled tenderly. Their first child would have to be called Ariel or Umbriel after the moons of Uranus. She would never be satisfied, else.
But now... should he tell her? Of course he should. But if he did, she would cry off from her engagement as governess. There could be no reason for her to continue working if her miserable forty pounds a year was no longer at stake. She was almost an heiress. The thought was too dreadful to contemplate.
If he were free, he would tell her, then simultaneously offer her the protection of his name. But that would not do either. Not now, when there was a breach of promise suit hanging over his golden head.
What, then? What? What? What? Again, the poor Aubusson carpet was in danger of being paced to threads. My lord was so lost in thought he did not hear the hall clock chiming the hour or even the low murmur of voices in the front receiving room. Oscar, the town butler, always attended to such matters anyway.
Lessons were fitful, Kitty tearful and Tom more than a trifle gloomy at the prospect of being cooped up all day. In truth, Anne herself was more inclined to gaze wistfully out the window than concentrate on the dreary conjugations she had been determined to get over with that week.
Seeking Celeste Page 11
