A Lady's Point of View (22 page)

Together, the three young women
reviewed the events of the past few days from every angle, bringing the
newcomer up to date on Meg’s misfortunes, and exploring at length Edward’s
reaction to the letter. At last Helen said, “We must make an attempt to set
things right.”

“Impossible,” said Angela.

“For Meg, perhaps. Germaine would
do whatever we asked, but I doubt she has much influence with his lordship,”
Helen said with a sigh. “However, my brother is another matter.”

“You can’t mean to say you
believe he’d listen to you, after all that has transpired.” Angela favoured
their friend with a sceptical glance

“No, but I do believe he loves
you, although he most likely doesn’t know it himself, thick headed as he is.”
Helen’s face took on a determined grimness. “Surely he’d be seized by jealousy
if he saw you in Sir Manfred’s arms.”

“Then he should have been the one
who arrived instead of Lady Darnet. But I think not.” Angela swallowed hard.
“Helen, he would as soon be jealous of me as of... as of some milkmaid on your
estates.”

“Don’t set yourself too low,
girl,” said Lady Mary. “The man has eyes, and you’re a fair sight for them.”

“Very true.” Helen reflected for
a moment. “Unfortunately, he intends to remove to Somerset as soon as possible,
taking the household with him. I must find reason for him to stay.”

Her listeners waited—Meg
hopefully, Angela near tears, Lady Mary occupied in working loose a blue thread
she had stitched in the wrong place.

“I have it,” Helen said at last.
“I shall tell him we must attend the ball, to give the lie to rumours that he
has broken off an engagement. Since my name and his are involved, he can hardly
refuse.”

“But won’t you mention Sir
Manfred?” asked Angela.

“Whatever for? Let Edward find
out for himself.”

“Helen, he’ll banish you to
Somerset until you’re eighty,” declared Meg.

“Even the stiffest boot softens
with time.” Helen shrugged. “I’ll take the consequences, since it’s my own
carelessness that brought us to this pass. Now I’d best be off, before my
absence draws too much attention. Aunt Emily won’t betray us, but Rachel
chatters like a magpie.” She kissed her friends on their cheeks and took her
leave.

“That’s a sensible girl,” said
Lady Mary after Helen had gone. “Takes matters into her own hands. We’ve left
the running of the world to men, and you see what a packet of bad fish they’ve
made of it. When it comes to matters of the heart, we’d best arrange things
ourselves.”

“But surely a young lady must
wait for the gentleman to make the first move,” said Meg.

“Not at all. She must merely make
the gentleman think that he has made the first move.” Her mother bit off a
thread and laid aside her embroidery. “I think I shall retire. Tomorrow you
must both help me prepare for the ball.”

Meg and Angela retreated to their
room in contemplative silence. As a result of their mother’s economies, no
replacement had been hired for Karen, so the two aided each other in
undressing.

“What a pretty pass we’ve come
to,” sighed Meg, brushing out her sister’s hair. “Both of us in love, and
neither of us loved in return.”

“I cannot think Helen will meet
with any success where Edward’s concerned.” Angela leaned her head back, as if
it had become too heavy for her slender neck. “He has no feelings for me beyond
disapproval. But at least his indifference when he learns of my engagement at
the ball will convince even the most hardened gossip that there was never an
attachment between us.”

Meg kept her own counsel. She had
never seen the pair together, but she suspected Edward’s response would be
infuriated jealousy. After all, how could anyone fail to love Angela?

After the candles were blown out,
Meg lay awake wondering at the strangeness she felt in this familiar room. The
soft rise and fall of Angela’s breathing, while a pleasant reminder of her
family’s nearness, also underscored how far she had come from Brynwood.

She would never see the marquis again. He had
already written her off as a bad business and was probably casting about for a
suitable wife. With his entrancing good looks, wealth, and position, he was
sure to find one soon.

Her heart clenched at the memory
of his accusations. That he should think she was a prankster, come to make
sport of him! How bitterly ironic, to be linked with the shallow creatures of
fashion who’d sent Meg packing in the first place.

It was hopeless to love him,
hopeless to lie here aching for the touch of his hand and the sound of his
voice. She must put him from her mind, and pray that in time her pain would dull.

Lord Bryn was never afterward
sure at precisely what point he decided to visit London for the first time in
more than two years. Perhaps it was as he watched the carriage bear Miss Linley
away, leaving him standing with clenched fists and an unfamiliar emptiness. Or
perhaps it was when he learned that the Geraints planned to remain in the
neighbourhood for some weeks, pending Germaine’s marriage to Squire Roberts.
Naturally Andrew felt obligated to offer them the continuing use of his
premises, although he found their presence a painful reminder of the past.

As did the downcast faces of the
children, who were asking when Miss Linley might return and who would give them
their lessons.

It was not as if he feared going
to town, he told himself, sipping brandy in his study. He simply had no need to
mix with society.

There was, however, a perfectly
good reason that he should go. His man of affairs had erred badly in selecting
the previous governess, since clearly the real Myra Lindsay had been unsuitable
to deal with his wards. I shall go and select a governess myself, he decided
firmly. Someone elderly— well, not so old she couldn’t keep the children in
hand, but definitely long in the tooth.

He also missed the comradeship of
his friends at Brooks’. He recalled with amusement the witticisms they made
about Beau Brummell, who with his foppish companions frequented the bow window
at White’s and made audible comments about the passersby in Bond Street. What a
pompous lot they were, and how he enjoyed skewering them with his chums at the
club.

One further matter remained with
which he must deal. The defection of Miss Geraint had left the marquis in need
of a wife.

Someone sweet and unassuming
would suit perfectly. A woman sure to fade into the background, never laughing
too loudly or dashing about the grounds yelling after the children—or taking
his heart away and refusing to give it back.

Bryn searched his memory. Hadn’t
he heard that Lady Cynthia Darnet was widowed a year or so before? He remembered
her as a quiet, elegant young woman. Perhaps she would do the trick.

Yes, the marquis would go to
London the very next day, and take matters in hand. And if that outrageous,
unscrupulous Meg Linley had spread word of her prank, he would cut her down to
the size of a turnip.

The food at Brooks’ was passable,
but only just. On Wednesday evening, the marquis consumed a dinner of boiled
fowl with apple tart, chiding himself for forgetting the mediocrity of the
club’s cuisine.

Now where had all his friends
gone these past few years? Unhappily Andrew searched the faces of those who
passed by. Some he recognized, but they were elderly gentlemen of little
interest to him.

An inquiry of the waiter produced
the information that one fellow had married and retired to the country, another
was serving with Wellington, a third had transferred his allegiance to the
odious White’s, and a fourth had been killed in a carriage accident. So it was
with considerable relief, as he sipped Madeira after dinner, that Lord Bryn
espied Edward Cockerell.

The two had never been close, but
they had belonged to the same set at Oxford. Andrew recalled some comment Miss
Linley had made, that Edward had brought out her younger sister, and this gave
him a moment’s pause. But when Cockerell spotted him and approached, the
marquis responded with a warm greeting.

“Glad to see you back in town.”
Edward took a seat in one of the wing chairs and signalled the waiter for a
sherry. “Business, old chap?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said
Andrew, adding frankly, “I’ve need of a governess for my wards, and while I’m
about it, thought I’d take a look round for a wife.”

Cockerell nodded agreeably. “Knew
Germaine wasn’t the right sort—too hoydenish,” he said. “Was on the edge of
getting leg-shackled to the wrong girl myself, but luckily I found out the
truth about her in time.”

The marquis listened in
fascination to the story of Angela Linley. An artful deceiver, just like her
sister.

When Edward came to the matter of
Meg’s letter, and Andrew realised his own affairs had been bruited about, he
grew cold with anger. So the minx had boasted of her cleverness, despite her
protestations of innocence.

With a sharp twinge, he saw that
until this moment he had secretly cherished the hope that Miss Linley might yet
prove to be a harmless eccentric who would reappear in his life, and prove
herself blameless. Now his last hope died. She must be punished. Oddly the
prospect gave him no pleasure.

“As if that weren’t bad enough,
my sister rang a peal over my head when I tried to withdraw to the country,”
Edward was saying. “She insists we must make an appearance at the ball or the
gossips will have a high time of it.”

“Let them,” muttered Lord Bryn.
“Who gives a fig for their opinion?”

“You must recall that I have an
unmarried sister and the family name to uphold.” Mr. Cockerell assumed a
prudish expression that, in Andrew’s opinion, would have better fitted an old
maid. “We haven’t the protection of a title, you know.”

Lord Bryn cut off a sharp retort.
The fellow was right. Under the circumstances Andrew might even have attended
the ball himself....

Attend the ball? Should he? Hmm.
What a cork-brained notion. Or was it?

The idea rattled around in his
brain. He hadn’t yet fixed on a method of repaying Miss Linley for her
betrayal, and this presented an opportunity.

“I say.” Andrew cleared his
throat. “Perhaps I should come with you. Give me a chance to see these Linleys
in their home setting. Can’t deny I’m curious.”

Edward sat up straighter, clearly
pleased at being singled out by the marquis. “Don’t see why not, old chap.
Deuced affair’s Friday night. We’ll have supper at our house first—we lay a
first-rate table.”

“Delighted,” said Andrew. “By the
by, have you any notion whether Lady Cynthia Darnet is in want of a husband?”

Edward frowned. Had he an
interest in the woman? Andrew might have suppose so, had the other man’s
forehead not smoothed at that moment. “I believe she is. If you like, we could
call there tomorrow afternoon.”

“Splendid,” said Andrew.

The following morning, he
arranged for an advertisement to be placed in the newspapers seeking a
governess. With luck, the business would be concluded by early the following
week. Then, mindful that his country wardrobe was ill suited to town, the
marquis forced himself to go shopping in St. James’s.

What painful memories came back
to him as he ordered Hessian boots, snowy cravats, a high-crowned beaver hat,
striped silk stockings, and other necessaries. In his younger days, it had been
Harry who followed dutifully behind, arranging for packages to be delivered
and, when asked, proffering expert opinions.

He would never have approved Lord
Bryn’s purchase of a blue coat, waistcoat, and knee breeches that had been made
for another gentleman but never claimed. However, they fitted well enough and
were of good material, and insufficient time remained before the ball to have
new items made.

The marquis was not a vain man,
but he rather enjoyed wearing elegant clothing once more. Rough clothes and
worn boots might be acceptable in the country, but it was a long-forgotten
pleasure to be well turned out.

A pity Meg had never seen him
this way. How her face would have glowed! With a rush of tactile memory, the
marquis recalled how she’d melted into his arms that night when he’d proposed.
He could still smell the sweetness of her hair, still feel the soft firmness of
her body. Until he met her, women had seemed to Lord Bryn to be a vaguely
necessary fact of life, owed one’s politeness but not worth much effort .

Meg. How forcefully she came back
to him now, teasing the children out of their bad moods, carrying armsful of
flowers from the garden, bringing light into the old house and into his life.

She had enchanted him like some
minx from a child’s fairy story. Only at the last had he broken free of her
spell. Why did he wish now that he had remained forever enchanted?

Angrily the marquis forced
himself, on returning home, to concentrate on preparing for the afternoon’s
visit to Lady Darnet. She, as he recalled, had been a proper wife to her first
husband, tractable and above reproach.

It was shortly after four o’clock
when Mr. Cockerell’s phaeton arrived, and the two gentlemen set off for the
widow’s home. They found the countess entertaining an elderly duchess and her
niece. Through the murmur of polite greetings and how-good-to-see-you-agains,
the air hummed with their thoughts.

Lady Darnet: The Marquis of Bryn,
back in London and visiting me! But in company with Mr. Cockerell. Whatever can
that mean? Well, Edward has had his chance, and no doubt he nurses a tendre for
that simpering miss. I’d give my left eye to marry a marquis, and a young one
at that.

Edward: She regards Bryn as if
she were assessing the cattle at Newmarket. What a conniving wench she is, in
spite of her fine looks and title. Why did I never see it before? But damn it,
she is suitable, at least. Whereas Angela... Oh, dash Angela!