Amanda Scott (23 page)

“Of course it will if your sincerity is clear, sir. She could not be so cruel as to refuse to grant you another chance.”

“Wembly might not allow her that choice, however,” Manningford said, the glint of laughter in his eyes more pronounced than ever.

“Wembly?”

“Her father. ’Twas he who wrote the letter informing Sep that the betrothal was at an end. I am afraid he was not kind.”

“Her father?”

The others had been listening, and Lady Flavia said now, “’Tis not at all unusual that her father should write such a letter, my dear. Mr. Lasenby has behaved very badly.”

Nell looked from her to Manningford, bewildered. “Yes, but how could he? Her father, that is. Surely he is dead.”

“No such thing,” Mr. Lasenby said with a dismal sigh. “Unless … is it possible you read of his demise in the Gazette, ma’am? I might have missed it m’self, you know, but dash it, no one can expect her to renew our betrothal if the whole family’s gone into mourning!”

“I saw no such thing,” Nell said, “but unless I am mistaken, you told me that Miss Wembly is already in possession of her fortune. I had thought her father must be deceased.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Mr. Lasenby said in a deflated tone, “you was thinking she had her wealth from him, but it comes from her brother, Alfred, you see. He had it from a nabob uncle, and when Alfred was killed at Waterloo, the fortune, by his will, went to Miss Wembly. Had he not willed it to her, it would have gone to his father—as his next of kin, don’t you know—and she would not have got it so soon as she did.”

Sybilla said suddenly, “I am sure Mr. Lasenby’s difficulties must be quite fascinating to us all, of course, but now that the servants are unlikely to return, we really must decide what is to be done about Papa’s letter.”

Her husband, who had moved to a seat beside her on the claw-footed sofa against the wall, said gently, “All of us, my dear?”

“Well, certainly. Why ever not? Mr. Lasenby knows quite as much as anyone else does—in point of fact, he knew about Papa’s books before I did—and Lady Flavia and Miss Bradbourne are part of the whole now, are they not? Surely, they ought to be told about the Regent’s wanting to meet Papa!”

The silence that followed her statement was due to the fact that both Nell and Lady Flavia were stunned and everyone else in the room had been expecting them to be (except Mr. Lasenby, who had been abashed by the latter’s comment and was now lost in contemplation of his own difficulties). Lady Flavia recovered first. “Let me understand you, Sybilla,” she said carefully. “Are you telling us that his royal highness desires to meet Sir Mortimer, or that he desires to meet that Gentlewoman of Quality whose skirts and pen have so long hidden your irascible parent from public view.”

Manningford grimaced. “As usual, ma’am, you have nicked the nick precisely. It is indeed a lady Prinny expects to meet, and the problem before us now is whether to reveal my father’s secret or—if we decide we must continue to keep it—provide his highness with an imposter. I think you will agree that to return a flat refusal to his request is not an eligible alternative.”

“Good gracious, no. That cannot be thought of. When does he come to Bath? I had heard nothing of this.”

“He is to stay one night only at Bathwick Hill House with Sydney and Carolyn Saint-Denis. He visits them from time to time, you know, to ask Sydney’s advice when he intends to purchase some new piece of Oriental bric-a-brac. They have been acquainted for donkey’s years. The plan, according to the letter from his highness’s librarian, which Murray forwarded to our Miss Harlowe, is that Prinny desires to have his author presented to him at Bathwick Hill House early in the afternoon. He will then attend the races at Landsdowne, where he has a horse called High Flier running—a slug, I’m told—before they dine and attend the new production at the Theatre Royal. I can’t think how to manage the thing, for even if Miss Bradbourne were to agree to carry her assistance with the subterfuge so far—”

“I couldn’t!” Nell exclaimed.

Lady Flavia said calmly, “No, to be sure you could not, my dear, for there is no way you could make anyone believe you had been writing books for nigh onto thirty years.”

Manningford said, “One could perhaps claim that only a few of the books were written by this particular Gentlewoman of Quality, you know. I daresay there are any number of—”

“Don’t be foolish, Brandon,” his sister interjected. “I spoke with Borland at length once he told me about Papa’s books, and he said that although Papa has remained anonymous, the notation is made in each book that it was written by the author of
Cymbeline Sheridan
. Thus, the prince must know perfectly well how long Papa has been writing. I do not think it would be wise to try to fob him off with Miss Bradbourne.”

Nell said weakly, “Truly, I could not.”

Manningford placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. “No one will ask you to do any such thing,” he said calmly. “It would be infamous. If the worse comes to the worst, we shall simply have to tell Prinny the truth.”

“No!” Sybilla exclaimed.

Quelling her with a look, Axbridge said, “I cannot think it would be at all wise to distress Sir Mortimer by revealing his secret to the Regent, whose ambitions arouse in him nothing but ill temper, or by insisting that he meet him. Either course would distress him, which cannot be good for his health.”

“Perhaps, sir,” Lady Flavia suggested, “Mr. Manningford might ask Sir Mortimer’s publisher to explain to the prince that the author is ill.”

Axbridge frowned. “It is an alternative, of course, but would it not result in drawing even more unwanted attention in the end? The quicker and cleaner we bring a conclusion to this business, the better it will be for all concerned, especially in view of your grandnephew’s difficulties, ma’am.”

There was another, longer silence, during which Nell racked her brain to think of a way to honor the Regent’s request without betraying Sir Mortimer. She could think of none, however, and could only hope that the others would agree with Manningford that she must not attempt to deceive his royal highness.

Just when it seemed that no one had been able to formulate a possible solution to the problem, Lady Flavia said calmly, “You know, my dears, I have thought and thought, and I can conceive of no good reason why I should not pose as Miss Clarissa Harlowe.”

L
ADY FLAVIA’S PROPOSITION WAS MET
with stunned silence. Nell looked from her great-aunt’s untroubled countenance to the others, seeing a reflection of her own astonishment in every face but one, since Mr. Lasenby, still apparently deaf to their discussion, continued to gaze absently out the window.

Axbridge, watching Lady Flavia now with a glint of amusement in his eyes, seemed the least affected, though he flicked an occasional glance at his wife or his brother-in-law, as though he expected sparks to fly between them. Sybilla looked thoughtful, Manningford disturbed.

It was Sybilla who spoke first. “Such a plan might work, ma’am, but we could never ask it of you.”

“Certainly not!” her brother agreed.

Lady Flavia cocked her head a little to one side, regarding them quizzically. “But why should you not? No one can deny that I am sufficiently stricken in years for the imposture; and, surely, I can lay claim to being a gentlewoman of quality.”

Nell saw that Manningford, like his brother-in-law, was beginning to see humor in the situation, but he still shook his head as he said, “We do not doubt your capability, ma’am, but there would be a considerable risk, and we must not ask you to—”

“Oh, piffle,” she said, cutting him off without apology. “One does see certain obstacles in one’s path, I’ll grant you, but none that cannot be overcome with a certain amount of sensible forethought. It is quite out of the question, for example, that my presentation be in any way public. Indeed, no one but ourselves and the Saint-Denises must know of it, since I am by far too well known in Bath to expect anyone here to swallow any pretense on my part to literary accomplishment. Also,” she added with crisp candor, “I doubt I can maintain such a deception for longer than half an hour.”

Axbridge smiled lazily at her. “I believe you are equal to anything, ma’am, and I for one applaud you, but Sybilla is right, you know. We ought not to take advantage of your good nature.”

“I say ‘piffle,’ again, sir, if you will permit me the liberty, for if the truth be known, I expect I should enjoy myself enormously. My scruples are no more delicate than those of most folks of my generation, you know, though one does draw the line at making a public display of oneself. When does he arrive, if you please? No date has been mentioned.”

With a resigned look on his face, Manningford said, “’Tis set for next week, ma’am, but you cannot have thought the matter through. You would be deceiving a prince of the realm—not a matter to take lightly, I think. Outrageous, in fact.”

“One must be practical, however,” she pointed out, “and if you desire to keep your father’s secret, which I must assume you do, you require a woman of my years to assist you. I am utterly available, not to mention perfectly willing, and furthermore, you have been kind enough to entrust me with the secret. Too many people know it now, if I may say so, and it will not do to be making a gift of it to many more, or there will soon be no point whatever in continuing any deception. Moreover,” she added in the tone of one having the last word, “I have read nearly all of your father’s books, I believe, so should his royal highness ask me a question about one, I shall not be made to look no-how, which is not a thing you may depend upon in just anyone you might ask to play the part, you know.”

When he still hesitated, she added dulcetly, “It is no more outrageous than other rigs you have run before now, dear boy. At least there are no live bears involved.”

His eyes opened rather wide at that, and he looked at Nell. “Been telling tales of me, my girl?”

“No, sir,” she said.

Axbridge chuckled. “She has no doubt heard about the horse coper you sent to Bedlam.”

“Did he do so?” Lady Flavia asked, with an appreciative look at the rueful Manningford. “I did not know. The tale I heard involved a bear introduced to the Pump Room.”

Sybilla, who had been paying them no heed, said suddenly, “You know, Brandon, I fancy we must consider how we are to divulge Papa’s secret to Sydney.” When he did not instantly respond, she added firmly, “We will have to do so if Lady Flavia is to play her part, for he knows perfectly well who she is and that she is no mysterious authoress. Moreover, he is completely trustworthy. You know he is. And since I agree that Lady Flavia cannot meet the Regent anywhere other than at Bathwick Hill House, Sydney—and no doubt Caro, too—must know the whole.”

Manningford replied, “You are right, of course, but even if we make Sydney a party to the deception, how is he to carry the thing off in anything like a private manner? Prinny will expect a certain amount of pomp and ceremony, you know, for he does like a proper audience when he condescends to confer any extraordinary civility upon one of his subjects.”

Lady Flavia’s eyes twinkled. “But, my dear boy, that part of the business is simplicity itself. Mr. Saint-Denis has only to tell his highness that the author is shy beyond reason, which is already known to be the truth, after all, and that she will not agree to any but an absolutely private meeting. Even his highness will find, one dares to think, that his consequence is increased by being admitted to the ranks of the few who know the identity of so popular but so mysterious an author.”

“Dash it, ma’am,” exclaimed Mr. Lasenby, his attention caught at last, “do you mean to say that you write books too? If that don’t beat all! I should never have guessed it, you know.”

Several persons began to speak at once, to explain his error to him, at which point Borland entered, bowed, and said to Sybilla, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but Sir Mortimer, having learned that Miss Bradbourne is on the premises, desires that she should step upstairs for a few moments, if it be convenient.”

As Nell arose and smoothed her skirts in preparation to accompany him, Sybilla raised her eyebrows in surprise and said, “You put us all to the blush, Miss Bradbourne. This must be quite the first time in many, many years that my father has actually requested that someone visit with him.”

Manningford, having got up when Nell did, prevented her from attempting to respond to this daunting comment by saying briskly to Borland, “You may tell my father that Miss Bradbourne will be along directly. I’ll take her upstairs myself, however, for there are several matters I want to attend to in the study.”

When the manservant had gone, he held out his arm to Nell, but she had heard an edge to Sybilla’s voice that she recognized at once, and she turned to her to say gently, “I have no true understanding of your father’s behavior, ma’am, but I believe that for some reason known only to himself, he finds it more comfortable now to communicate with a stranger than with the members of his family. It is quite his own fault, of course, that he does not know you all better, but you must not think this a sign of particular favor toward me, for it is no such thing. He dislikes me quite as much as he dislikes anyone, I believe, but he presently finds himself in a position where he must depend upon someone. Only think how dreadful it would be for him now, after having ignored you all so assiduously for so many years, to have to admit his need of you.”

The glint faded from Sybilla’s eyes. “You are kind to explain his situation in such terms, Miss Bradbourne.” Turning to her husband, she sighed and said, “I begin to think the sooner we return to Axbridge Park, my love, the better it will be. I quite long for the sight and sound of my children.”

His charming smile lit his face again as he reached out to squeeze her hand. “We will go as soon as I receive word from London, sweetheart. Sooner, if you insist, but I think matters here will arrange themselves more sensibly if we linger for another day or two.”

Manningford touched Nell’s arm then, and she allowed him to guide her from the room, but she was thinking about Sybilla and Sir Mortimer. She could not fancy that the marchioness owed her any debt of gratitude, since the entire, absurd situation must be most uncomfortable for Sir Mortimer’s family; and just then, as she knew full well, her presence on the scene did nothing to help them. Indeed, the more she thought about it as she accompanied Manningford up the stairs, the more disturbed she became.