A Lady's Point of View (21 page)

Angela stared at her hand in
perplexity. “I...I’m not sure I see what you mean, sir.”

“Hmm.” He gazed rapidly around
the room. A bedchamber would have offered more scope, but then, if he were
alone with Angela in her bedchamber, no such stratagems would be necessary.

A light blue embroidery cloth lay
not far off in a sewing basket, and beneath it he found a spool of dark blue
thread. “Now I shall demonstrate with these two shades,” he said, returning to
Angela’s side.

He lifted the cornflower-blue
cloth, much like the shade of her eyes, and set it against her ivory skin.
“Very pretty,” Sir Manfred observed. “You should wear this frequently.”

“I have several blue gowns in
that shade,” Angela confirmed.

“Now see the effect of the darker
colour.” He laid the spool against her skin. “An entirely different picture.
You see for yourself how it overpowers you.”

“I had always assumed young girls
avoided dark hues because they were depressing to the spirits.” Angela was
clearly fascinated by these revelations. “But it’s because they make one look a
dowd.”

“Nothing could make you look a
dowd,” corrected Sir Manfred. Damn, not time yet for his move. “Let us examine
some other colours.”

“Oh, yes!” Angela seemed—he
searched for the right word—relieved. Perhaps she had feared some other topic
of conversation. The forthcoming ball? No time to plumb the matter. After a
rapid calculation, Sir Manfred shrugged off his bottle-green jacket.
           

“Sir!” Angela made fluttering
motions with her hands. “You mustn’t do this! Your sleeve would have sufficed.”

“What? Oh, what a ninnyhammer you
must think me!” Sir Manfred feigned a laugh. “All the same, regard this shade
against your hand. What do you think of it?”

“It’s better than the dark blue
but not nearly so flattering as the light,” Angela declared.

Fortunately Sir Manfred’s vest
was yellow, a hue they hadn’t yet explored. “I promise not to disrobe further,
Miss Angela. Merely place your arm next to my chest. Yes. Ah, that is an
excellent tint. I can scarcely wait to see you in your ball gown.”

He knelt beside her chair,
holding her hand close to his heart. From the street came the sound of a
carriage drawing to a halt.

Angela’s eyes widened in alarm,
and she opened her mouth to protest. As she did so, Sir Manfred gave her hand a
sharp tug and the girl lost her balance. As he had intended, she fell upon him.
Quickly he pressed his lips to hers, just as Lady Cynthia Darnet thrust ahead
of the butler through the door.

“Oh, gad!” the countess squealed,
a touch too dramatically, in his opinion. “I never imagined... Well! I’ve never
been so shocked in my life.”

The unfortunate target of this
outburst looked as if she might expire. Sir Manfred felt a wave of pity as he
helped her to her feet. She was a taking little thing, and there was no proof
she had abused his kindnesses. Why not use this opportunity to accomplish what
he had hoped for?

“I assure you, Lady Darnet,
matters were not as they seemed,” he muttered.

“Were they not?” Cynthia was in
full sail now. “I find Miss Linley unchaperoned in a closed room, lying upon
the floor, and you, Sir Manfred, in a state of undress!”

He glanced down at Angela where
she sagged on the sofa, and caught a glimmer of tears threatening to overflow.
“Surely you would never repeat such a tale,” he declared protectively. “If
there’s any fault, it must be mine.”

“Not repeat it?” Lady Darnet
stared at him indignantly. “If a young lady chooses to behave in such a
disgraceful manner, society should know the particulars! As for its being your
fault, sir, when a lady entertains a gentleman without proper supervision, she
cannot cry foul if he takes advantage of the situation.”

Angela shook her head dazedly. “I
shall go away.” Her voice came out in a whisper. “Meg and I...we shall go back
home—”

“Nonsense,” said Sir Manfred.

His cousin frowned and drew back
her leg as though she would like to kick him. “The girl is right. A most
sensible idea. The Linleys don’t belong in London. Two scandals in one season!”

“There will be no scandal,” he
informed her. “Miss Angela and I are going to be married.”

In the stunned silence that
followed, Angela saw the events of the day flash before her. Edward’s fury, the
end of their engagement, the necessity to give the ball even though it would
further impoverish Lady Mary, Meg’s arrival full of the hope of resuming her
place in society.

Seeing only one way of saving the
people she loved, Angela took it. “Yes,” she told Lady Darnet, “Sir Manfred and
I are betrothed.”

What a talent she had for getting
herself into the briars, Meg reflected as the Bryn carriage rattled through the
outskirts of Manchester. Oh, she would be so glad to get home!

At least she had Angela’s wedding
to anticipate, and the end of their financial difficulties. Not that Lady Mary
expected Edward to fund her establishment, but it would remove Angela’s
expenses, and the Linleys might naturally spend considerable time each year
visiting the Cockerells.

She wouldn’t mind in the least!
Meg thought, her spirits beginning to rise for the first time in a day and a
half as she pictured Helen’s beloved face. They had so much to discuss.

Her mind returned then to Lord
Bryn, and the spurt of happy anticipation died within her. The marquis had
avoided her the rest of Sunday afternoon and evening, and she’d taken a subdued
supper in the nursery. The children were also down at heart, whimpering and
asking who would take care of them.

Indeed, who? she wondered
unhappily. Germaine was to marry Squire Roberts, and of course there was no governess
at hand. That pathetic Myra wouldn’t have suited, in any case. Given to
vapours! What would she have done when confronted with a mouse, or a ghost?

The idea brought a brief smile to
her lips. Then it was replaced by the image of his lordship’s visage that
morning, dark and glowering. What had happened to the love he professed?

He had come out to see her off,
along with Germaine and the children. Nothing in his cold indifference had
indicated she had been anything more to him than a governess for his children.

So many words had hung unspoken
in the air. Part of Meg yearned to abandon propriety and run to him, cling to
his sleeve, beg his forgiveness. A more spirited part of her had ached to give
him a good shake. What kind of man would condemn them both to a lifetime of
unhappiness as punishment for an error in judgment?

If only he did not hold so low an
opinion of the
ton,
and therefore of her. Unfair as it might be, his
anger at himself over the death of his servant, and at London society for its
frivolity, had all devolved upon Meg. By her bumblings, she had come to
symbolise all that he loathed and deplored. Could a mere woman overcome such
condemnation?

Her musings broke off as the
coach rattled into the innyard, and the coachman came round to hand Meg down.
Instinctively she adjusted the spectacles. She had offered, this morning, to
return them, but Andrew—no, Lord Bryn, she must henceforth think of him that
way— had waved aside her offer in annoyance.

The courtyard looked entirely
different now, no longer blurry and confusing, but full of gesticulating
people, bright carriages, and scampering kittens. In some other mood, Meg might
have enjoyed watching the activity. Now the details contrived to remind her
painfully of his lordship—the arrogant turn of a gentleman’s head, the soft
happiness in a lady’s eyes, the shouts of children.

Turning away, Meg proceeded to
make arrangements for a seat on the mail to London. If fellow passengers
favoured her with bold stares for travelling alone, she was not disturbed. The
easily cowed girl who had left London a few weeks past was gone forever.

So Meg returned to London, and to
the shocking news that Angela was engaged to marry the wrong man. It was worse
even than her own predicament, for Angela’s happiness was far more important to
Meg than her own.

“You can’t mean to go through
with it!” she cried as she sat with her family in Lady Mary’s private parlour
on her first evening home, trying to absorb the rapid sequence of events that
had taken place shortly before her arrival.

“I can and I shall,” Angela said
quietly. “Edward has no affection for me—of that I feel certain. One of us must
marry soon, and Sir Manfred is an eligible specimen.”

An eligible specimen! What chill
words from the sister who a few weeks past had been the most innocent and
trusting of creatures. Meg turned to their mother. “You can’t mean to let her.
Surely you see it will ruin her life.”

“I see nothing of the kind.” Lady
Mary continued working at her embroidery, as if ordering a neat overlay of
threads could bring order to the tangle of their lives. “From what you’ve told
us there is no hope of a marriage with Lord Bryn, nor from what I can see is
there any chance of Edward’s changing his mind. He can be infuriatingly
pompous, although I’d not have said so were he my son-in-law.”

“But Sir Manfred?” Meg protested,
remembering the drunken gentleman who had abandoned her on the dance floor at
Almack’s. That foppish fool must never touch her sister. “I’d sooner marry him
myself, if someone must.”

“I scarcely think we can hand Sir
Manfred about like a prize horse.” Angela produced the first genuine smile Meg
had seen since her return to London.

“But you love Mr. Cockerell!”

“And you love Lord Bryn,”
responded her sister. “Since neither of us can have what we want, we must take
what we can get.”

“Most sensible,” said Lady Mary.

Meg clamped shut her lips. In her
weeks away from home, she had dwelt in her mind upon her family’s endearing
traits. She had all but forgotten her mother’s narrow practical streak and her
sister’s stubbornness.

What was she doing, thinking ill
of the two people she loved most? It was because of her that they had come to
this pass.

“I’m terribly sorry for my
misadventures and for writing about them to Helen,” Meg said. “It never occurred
to me she would show the letter to her brother.”

“I can scarcely believe it
myself.” Angela pricked her finger on her embroidery and tossed it irritably
aside. “What do you suppose she had in mind? When I suggested telling him of
our financial straits earlier, she rejected the notion.”

“Quite rightly, too,” said their
mother.

“Surely you don’t advocate
intentional deception,” Angela exclaimed.

“The world in general and the
ton
in particular are built upon intentional deception,” responded Lady Mary, to
the girls’ amazement. “Aging widows disguise their wrinkles with powders and
paints, young rakes borrow endlessly and live beyond their means, and our own
Prince Regent seeks to hide his bulk by squeezing it beneath a corset.”

“But you cannot support dishonesty,”
said Meg. “I behaved most shamefully in disguising myself as a governess, did I
not?”

“Where does one cease keeping up
appearances and begin to be dishonest?” This flight of philosophy by the
usually prosaic Lady Mary left both her daughters speechless. “Angela has a
respectable dowry. The state of her family’s finances is none of her fiancé’s
concern.”

Mrs. Pickney, the housekeeper,
made a noisy approach down the hallway and stepped through the open door. “Miss
Cockerell has come to call, and begs your forgiveness for the lateness of the
hour, my lady.”

“What! Come to visit after
supper?” Lady Mary stared at the housekeeper in horror. “Unheard of!”

“Perhaps she means to apologise,”
Meg said hopefully.

“It’s most improper. We are not
at home to her.”

“Nonsense, Mother.” Angela spoke
with a note of authority that her sister had never heard before. “She’s had to
wait to slip out until Edward went to his club. You don’t imagine he’d let her
come calling, free as you please, in the middle of the afternoon?”

Grudgingly, their mother conceded
the point, and instructed the housekeeper to show their guest inside. Helen ran
up the steps in a most unladylike manner, and arrived at the parlour
breathless, her hair askew. “Meg! Welcome back!”

Without hesitation, Meg ran to
embrace her friend. “Have you had to sneak out?”

“I’m afraid so.” Helen greeted
Lady Mary and Angela before continuing. “I had to explain about the letter, and
see what I can do to patch things up.”

“Nothing, I’m afraid.” Meg joined
their guest on the threadbare sofa. “My sister has managed to get herself
promised to Sir Manfred, of all people.”

“It seems a logical solution,”
said Angela, but the tears glimmering in her eyes belied the surface calm.

“Logical? It’s absurd, and so is
my brother!” Had he stepped into the room at that moment, Helen left no doubt
she would have assaulted him with any weapon at hand. “You can’t go through
with this, Angela, although I dare say even Sir Manfred is an improvement over
Edward, when it comes to good manners.”

Mrs. Pickney carried in an armful
of paper-wrapped packages. “Where would you like these, Miss Cockerell?”

“Right here, thank you.” The girl
jumped up. “These are some of my gowns for you, Meg, as you requested.” She
tore open the paper and pulled out masses of silk and lace and muslin. One
bundle held matching ribbons, fans, gloves, and slippers.

“That’s very kind of you, Helen,”
said Lady Mary, signalling the housekeeper to depart. “I fear we cannot accept
such generosity.”

“Oh, please!” The tall girl
clasped her hands together. “It’s the least I can do. Oh, Meg, I never meant to
cause trouble for Angela. I had so looked forward to welcoming her into the
family. But the letter fell out of the book where I’d hidden it, and Edward
chanced upon it. You can’t know how horrified I was when I found it missing.”