Birds of a Feather

by Allison Lane

  “This feels like home today,” said Harriet wistfully.

  “Are you not enjoying London?”

  “Y-yes.” Guilt flashed in her eyes. “The balls and theater are quite exciting. And I’ve never seen such elegant gowns.”

  “But?”

  “I miss the Harper girls,” she admitted, naming the squire’s daughters. “And the open fields. I feel caged in town. The people are nicer at home, too. They never mind if I trip over a carpet or prefer Rose Parker’s puddings to Cook’s elegant cakes.” Rose was a tenant. “In London, I can never relax. There are rules about everything, and Mama scolds when I make mistakes. You are more tolerant, but I know I will never keep it all straight.”

  She was right, conceded Joanna. Lady Wicksfield pounced on the slightest slips. “You are doing very well, Harriet. No one has said anything against you. And Lady Pressington’s musical evening was quite successful. Lady Cowper swore you sang like an angel, and even Lady Jersey complimented you.”

  “Mama did not. She was furious that I changed songs without telling her.”

  “Your choice was better.” They had held this discussion before, but Harriet still harbored doubts about her small rebellion. “Robert Burns is quite popular, and your selection reflected both your age and your sweet nature. Her suggestion would not have worked as well. You cannot carry off teasing allusions to things you don’t understand.”

  Harriet’s forehead creased in concentration. “What are you talking about?”

  “She wanted you to play the coquette, hoping Almont would respond with an offer. But that is not a role you could manage.” In truth, Harriet’s angelic performance had worked much better. Joanna had been deflecting him ever since.

  Discussion ceased when a gentleman approached. Wethersby.

  “Miss Patterson. Lady Harriet.”

  Harriet flushed.

  His eyes dueled briefly with Joanna’s, acknowledging her attempt to discourage him and his refusal to comply. Since this walk had been her own idea, there was no question of an assignation. Thus she nodded stiffly.

  He turned to Harriet. “Will you be at the theater tonight?”

  “Of course, my dear sir,” she exclaimed before Joanna could stop her. “We will be in Lady Thurston’s party. Do you know what we are to see?”

  “Shakespeare’s Othello, though you will find it rather tragic.” He turned to accompany them as they resumed their walk. “But you will enjoy the farce. They are performing Sheridan’s School for Scandal. I will make a point of visiting your box during the first interval.”

  “We will welcome you.”

  He cast another glance at Joanna, a twinkle lighting his eyes, though he kept his face rigidly neutral.

  The path was too narrow to allow her to remain at Harriet’s side, so she fell in behind them as Mr. Wethersby carefully outlined the plots of both plays. She was torn between gratitude and annoyance. He was making sure that Harriet enjoyed the evening – and doing it in a way that was not condescending. Yet in the very process of helping her, he was feeding her tendre.

  Devil take the man! Did he not realize that he was placing Harriet in a difficult position? How could he expect to offer for an earl’s daughter? Even discounting Wicksfield’s problems, Wethersby was merely a baron’s younger son.

  She nearly interrupted to claim a pressing errand, but something stayed her hand. He was speaking now of his home in Yorkshire, gently probing Harriet for her views on country and city life. After describing the estate he had recently inherited from an uncle, he allowed her to compare it with Wicksfield Manor.

  Harriet had not been this relaxed since arriving in London. Her voice was more confident, lacking that note of uncertainty that usually made her sound on the brink of hysteria. Her hands flowed in natural gestures. And her comments again showed more awareness than usual. Was it fear and insecurity that made her seem so dull-witted? Since Joanna had met her just before leaving for London, she had no points of comparison. But if insecurity was responsible for her demeanor, then Wicksfield was doing her a vast disservice by presenting her now. As Lord Sedgewick had noted, she was far younger than her years – except with Wethersby.

  She shivered.

  “I must leave you now,” he said regretfully. “Remaining longer would draw unwanted attention, despite the presence of the most estimable Miss Patterson.”

  He turned to face a crestfallen Harriet, allowing Joanna a view of his face. It reflected a level of caring she rarely saw in gentlemen. Not mindless infatuation, which half the bucks in town affected, but a warmth that ran much deeper. His eyes locked with Harriet’s as he said his farewells.

  Joanna automatically muttered conventional phrases, rocked to the core by the look they had just exchanged. Wethersby loved Harriet. Intensely and irrevocably. And she returned his feelings in full measure.

  Disaster loomed. Unless Reggie turned up a secret fortune, the Honorable Jonathan Wethersby was in no position to help Wicksfield obtain a loan. She could not imagine the earl granting permission for a match. He might pay lip-service to allowing Harriet a voice in her future, but when faced with the reality of an offer, his own interests would come first.

  Yet she had to admit that Harriet was not suited to the social whirl a gentleman of high standing would demand. The girl was uncomfortable in Society, where she must think through every comment before speaking. As she had admitted only an hour ago, she preferred the country. Her inclinations would appall the high sticklers.

  The admission placed a new burden on Joanna’s shoulders. Honesty admitted that Harriet would be happiest with Wethersby. They had not met a single gentleman who would suit better – at least none that she had noticed, she admitted, guiltily aware that her own dereliction to duty had allowed this friendship to grow unchecked.

  Silently blowing out a long breath, she faced the consequences. Not only would this match expose Wicksfield’s problem to the world by forcing him to sell the town house and tighten his belt even further, but it would subject him to Lady Wicksfield’s wrath. The countess combined limited understanding with a determination to get her own way that turned her into a harridan when she was crossed. In fact, Joanna now feared the woman had less intelligence than her daughter.

  These suspicions were confirmed the moment they reached the house.

  “Where have you been?” demanded Lady Wicksfield. “Ellisham called half an hour ago. When he discovered Harriet’s absence, he left.”

  “We were walking in Hyde Park, Mama,” said Harriet.

  “How dare you leave when a gentleman might call? If you have thrown away a chance to snare a marquess’s heir, I will never forgive you.”

  “It is well before calling hours, my lady,” pointed out Joanna. “We could hardly have expected him.” Though she should have known he would call early, if only to avoid Lady Wicksfield.

  “He must wish to make an offer.”

  “I doubt it.” How had Lady Wicksfield arrived at so absurd a conclusion? “All the gentlemen know that they must first speak to Lord Wicksfield. But even if his thoughts are moving that direction, he would hardly change his plans just because we were away when he called without warning.”

  It took several minutes to calm the woman’s nerves, but at least Reggie’s call would deflect her attention from Almont. She would prefer a marquess’s heir to a baron, particularly since the Glendale fortune was larger.

  If Lady Wicksfield publicly pursued Reggie, Almont might give up and choose someone else. Already the Season bored him. He wanted to settle his succession so he could return to his other family.

  But nothing was certain, and even losing Almont would not resolve her growing problems. She had underestimated Lady Wicksfield’s ability to spend money – again betraying her naïveté, she admitted. The allowance for this Season had seemed enormous compared to a vicar’s budget, but London prices were appalling. The funds would expire in another fortnight – sooner if Lady Wicksfield was hiding additional debts. So she must thi
nk. The earl would only consider Wethersby’s suit if she found an alternate way to fill his empty purse.

  * * * *

  Sedge slipped into an isolated corner of Hatchard’s so he could relax his public face while pondering this latest information. He had enjoyed running into his friend Thomas, at least until that last on-dit had stabbed icy fear into his gut. Why had Reggie been paying a call at Wicksfield House at ten in the morning? That was long before acceptable calling hours. In fact, few people were even awake then – except servants.

  Miss Patterson?

  The cold spread. Reggie had spent four days out of town, during which their father had berated him for remaining unwed – and probably for his attentions to Miss Patterson; their mother would have reported them. The moment he spotted her on his return, his face had filled with joy – as had hers, he admitted grimly. They had talked seriously for an entire set, then openly flirted when he’d joined them. Reggie had called on her at a time when her employer was likely to be asleep.

  It was not a pretty picture.

  So how could he save Reggie from making a mistake he would rue for the rest of his life? Pressure was not the answer. Their parents’ tirades had prompted Reggie to dig in his heels and deny even obvious truths. Sedge doubted he could do any better, but he had to try.

  “Miss Patterson.” He rapidly donned his public facade when the author of Reggie’s troubles appeared around a bookcase.

  “My lord.” She cocked her head, then grinned. “Now why might London’s most fatuous fribble be skulking in the corner of a bookshop?”

  “Hardly a fribble, Miss Patterson,” he drawled. “I work quite hard at what I do.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Ornamentation. Without my efforts, London would be quite dull – ill-dressed men, dowdy women, even mismatched decor in drawing rooms and boudoirs.” He shivered theatrically. “Can you imagine the horror? It took me an hour to dissuade Lady Duncan from adding an orange tapestry to her scarlet drawing room. And Lady Taverstock actually contemplated mixing delicate French tables with Egyptian crocodile couches.”

  “A dreadful mistake, to be sure,” she replied, apparently tongue in cheek. “Doing it more than a little brown, I believe.”

  He stifled a chuckle. “Not at all. The world piles many duties on my poor shoulders. In addition to staving off esthetic nightmares, I must entertain a society larded with courtcards, goosecaps, and totty-headed rattles. Fortunately, Society cooperates by providing me with abundant stories.”

  “Like the empty-headed ninny who couldn’t spot a horse at ten paces?” Her voice had chilled.

  She must have overheard that particular performance. “I intended you no harm, Miss Patterson, and would have changed nothing had I known you were listening. Granted, you probably felt embarrassed, but no one could have deduced your identity from my words. And life is more pleasant if one can appreciate its humorous moments.”

  Her mouth twitched. “I suppose there is a certain absurdity in discerning a minuscule mop like Maximillian while remaining blind to a team of fifteen-hand carriage horses clattering across the cobblestones.”

  “I would have called them sixteen hands, myself.”

  “Of course. How blind of me.”

  He joined her laughter. “You see? Humor enlivens any day. Did you note Mr. Rosewood last evening?”

  “Rosewood…” Her frown suddenly cleared. “Ah, the spotty-faced youth in the purple coat and flowered waistcoat. Is he the one who tripped Miss Applegate?”

  “Twice. He entertains a passion for her, poor boy, though she was absent the day comely faces were awarded. To make amends for his clumsiness, he spirited her into the garden.”

  “It must have worked. They were blushing on return,” she noted.

  “All too well. He plans to make her an offer.”

  “At his age? He cannot be above nineteen.”

  He twirled his quizzing glass. “Will her father object? Given her looks and lack of dowry, she can hardly do better. But one must pity the poor girl.”

  “Why, if he truly cares?”

  “Your ignorance is showing.” He smiled. “Miss Rose Applegate to wed Mr. Rosewood. The world will think her a stutterer for the rest of her days.”

  She joined his laughter. “She will survive, though, for few people will use both names. I will reserve my sympathy for gentlemen whose parents encumbered them with monstrosities. Like Lester Lyle Leonard, Lord Lipping. Try saying that after a few glasses of Christmas punch.”

  “Cecil Sherman has the same problem. But you cannot always blame insensitive parents. Mr. Marblehead has wished for a title for years – you can imagine how his schoolmates plagued him.”

  “Probably no more than they plagued Peter Padden, the squire’s son. To this day he cringes at any mention of puddings.”

  They shared a congenial smile, but Joanna soon grew serious. “This is an opportune meeting, my lord. I will not see Reggie this evening as we are promised to the theater. Would you ask him not to call tomorrow? Lady Wicksfield imputed the most ridiculous motives to him this morning. I would not wish her to do anything unscrupulous.”

  “Why did you not tell him before he left?” he asked.

  “I was from home at the time.” She pulled a book from the shelf. “I must hurry if we are to manage today’s calls.” And she was gone.

  He frowned after her. The chit was the most accomplished actress he’d seen on or off a stage. She played the ingenuous companion to perfection, even using him to send a veiled message to her target.

  Poor Reggie. He’d probably been caught before he realized his danger. She exuded an aura worthy of the Sirens. He felt it himself, though he refused to succumb. But for the first time, he could sympathize with Ulysses tied to his mast. Even knowing the danger she posed, he was tempted to test the waters.

  * * * *

  Joanna paid little attention to the stage that evening. Nor did she turn her usual cool stare on Wethersby when he joined them. She was scanning the other boxes, hoping for inspiration. How was she to solve Wicksfield’s problem?

  Gossip claimed that Lord Northrup had made a fortune during the chaos following Waterloo. But other investors had lost equal fortunes by believing the wrong rumors. Even if the opportunity arose for another windfall, how did one decide which way to bet?

  Lord Hartford made a tidy income from breeding and training hunters, but Wicksfield lacked expertise in that field. And building a successful stable took time.

  Mr. Fulwood had returned from several years in India with a fortune, but again, that would not work for Wicksfield. Many men had left the country in search of riches, but few returned as nabobs. Disease, accidents, and failure took a steep toll.

  Was anyone else willing to back a loan? It was a tricky question, for gentlemen drew a sharp line between business and friendship. She could not summon the courage to approach even Reggie with such a suggestion.

  But thoughts of Reggie recalled her latest meeting with his brother. She almost wished he had remained furious with her. Acknowledging his wit made him far too intriguing.

  She stifled a shudder. How could she entertain any liking for a man who despised her? He might have changed tactics, but he remained determined to destroy her friendship with Reggie. It was a fact she must never forget.

  But she had. When he had smiled at her in Hatchard’s, she had forgotten everything – which was incredibly stupid. Never again could she allow her judgment to waver. Matching wits with a fatuous fribble of uncertain temperament could only hurt Harriet.

  Crossbridge entered a box across the theater, drawing her attention. The very proper Lady Hortense Leigh accompanied him, as did her parents.

  “He is still furious over his recent embarrassment,” whispered Lady Thurston to Lady Wicksfield, loudly enough that Joanna heard her in the rear of the box – evidence of a hearing problem she refused to acknowledge.

  Most of the audience was also staring at him. Reggie’s hints bore l
ittle resemblance to current gossip, which now suggested that the print depicted every perversion known to mankind. Young cubs mobbed Crossbridge, demanding to see the infamous illustration – and offering shocking sums for the privilege.

  “How can he show his face in public?” demanded Lady Wicksfield.

  “He has vowed vengeance on the culprit,” said Lady Thurston.

  “On Ellisham?”

  “Ellisham was merely a pawn. He probably planted the print when he called on Crossbridge that morning. And why would he visit Lady Horseley if not to trip Crossbridge? Everyone knows he despises the lady. But Lord Sedgewick must have been behind the incident. He is the only man in town who could force Ellisham to behave so basely.”

  Joanna ignored their growing indignation. Crossbridge kept his eyes on the stage, blithely ignoring the avid stares of half the audience. How would it feel to be the object of so much curiosity? He must dread each new outing.

  Yet she had to wonder how the illustration had gotten into that magazine. Both brothers had denied complicity. Despite rumors to the contrary, she believed them. Reggie would never have done so, and even the most avid gossips admitted that Lord Sedgewick had avoided Crossbridge this Season. So perhaps Crossbridge was not as staid as his public image implied. Most of Society hid behind façades. Why not him?

  Snatches of conversation drifted in from adjoining boxes, many describing Lord Sedgewick’s earlier pranks against Crossbridge. Some were hilariously inventive, reminding her sharply of her brother Jeremy. Was that why she felt drawn to him? Maybe he exuded a faint air of home.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Joanna stared as she trailed Harriet and Lady Wicksfield into Lady Warburton’s ballroom. The annual masquerade was a twenty-year-old tradition that offered innocent maidens the excitement of a costume ball while protecting them from the ribaldry common at the public masques. Only the highest sticklers received invitations.