Anne Barbour

A TALENT FOR TROUBLE

Anne Barbour

Chapter One

The traveling coach lumbering sedately along the Cambridge Road was not built for speed, and its days as an equipage of fashionable elegance were long past. A faded crest could be seen outlined on its panels, and the postilions wore livery of dark green and a somewhat tarnished silver. As the coach made its ponderous way along an uphill stretch, a diminutive head popped from the window now and then to implore the coachman to “Put ‘em along, can’t you, Greavey? Spring ‘em! Please?”

Her pleas were to no avail, and after a final attempt, Lady Talitha Burnside drew back into the carriage and sank back into her seat.

“Really, Addie,” she cried in a despairing voice to the elderly woman seated opposite her, “we shall never get to Town at this rate.”

Miss Theodora Adlestrop smiled indulgently. She had been Tally’s governess for thirteen years, and well knew the wide-ranging enthusiasms that dwelled in that young woman’s slight form. She surveyed her erstwhile charge with a fond eye. No one could call Lady Tally a beauty—she was too small, and altogether too brown—but there was a certain something about her. Charm was perhaps the best word to describe it. Miss Adlestrop sighed. It was unfortunate that Tally’s reduced circumstances prohibited her from displaying that charm, and her wit and warmth, to any but a very few intimates. She reached to pat Tally’s hand.

“The delay at Bishop’s Stortford was indeed unfortunate, but it takes time to mend a broken axle. Merciful heavens, it’s a wonder we weren’t killed!”

“No thanks to Henry!” responded her young friend tartly. “This old lumberbus has been moldering away in our coach-house for years, and I don’t suppose he had anyone look at it before we started out.”

“Well, now my lady, London has been a-building for nearly two thousand years now, and I don’t believe it will vanish by the time we arrive. See, we are approaching Islington Village, and will be drawing up before dear Catherine’s door in less than an hour.”

“Yes, but Addie, we were to have arrived hours ago!” wailed the young woman. “I must be in London by four o’clock. If I do not see Mr. Mapes today, I will have missed my opportunity, for he is leaving town tomorrow and won’t be back for weeks!”

“Oh, that.” Miss Adlestrop fidgeted. “Lady Tally, you cannot mean you are actually going through with this--this foolishness. What will Lord Bamfield say?”

“Foolishness!” Tally’s eyes widened in an indignant stare. “Henry has nothing to say to this! Of course, I told him that I’m on the hunt for an eligible parti-but I have come to the city to--to Launch My Career!”

Miss Adlestrop uttered a sound that was perilously close to a snort.

“Career, indeed. My dear, you are a lady of quality. What Lord Bamfield—the late earl, that is—would have thought to see his daughter scheming to earn her own way... ! And as a--scribbler of--obscene pictures!”

Tally stiffened, causing the bonnet which she had hastily tied over her thick chestnut hair to tilt even further askew.

“And just where is it written,” she asked with asperity, “that a lady must starve on a wretched pittance, when she has the ability to earn her own bread? And I do not scribble obscene pictures.” She drew herself up, lifting her already short, uptilted nose. “I am a caricaturist!”

“But you do not have to live on a pittance. Your brother has made it more than clear that you are welcome to make your home at Summerhill Park. You’ve always loved the Park, even more than your brother, I’ve often thought.”

Tally’s great brown eyes misted. Summerhill. Memories of endless tumbles through sunlit meadows spun in her mind—and companionable gallops with her father, flying over hedgerows and down leafy lanes. It was still hard to realize that she would never again enjoy a comfortable ramble beside the person she had loved the most in the world. Since the earl’s death in a hunting accident over a year ago, she had not been able to think of those days without tears. So, she would not think of them at all.

“I have no desire to stay at Summerhill,” she asserted. “Henry and I would simply live at daggers drawn. Besides, if I remained at the Park, I should decline into the status of ‘dear Aunt Talitha.’ ” She pursed her lips in a scandalously accurate imitation of her sister-in-law’s rather sour countenance.

“Children, you are giving me such a headache, why don’t you all go up to the nursery for a game of spillikins with dear Aunt Talitha?” Or, “It would be ever so accommodating of dear Aunt Talitha if she were to take all three of you on a picnic while Mama entertains visitors this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” continued Tally, her voice tinged with acid, “but I believe that I would rather make my own way as a ‘scribbler’ than serve as an unpaid nanny in Henry’s household.”

Miss Adlestrop sighed once more, her plump chins atremble and easy tears appeared in her pale blue eyes.

“To think that your dear papa should have left you in such straits. Fifty pounds a year is certainly not what he could have intended for you. He can’t have meant to leave things in such a bumble broth.”

“No,” agreed Tally slowly. “I’ve gone over it all a hundred times in my mind since Papa—since Papa died, and I can only conclude that he intended to make out a new will, but simply never got around to it. You know how he was—‘Never put off until tomorrow what you can push off till next week.’ ”

Finding herself sinking deeper into a quite unacceptable mire of gloom, she shook herself.

“Well, at any rate, Henry has behaved very handsomely in regard to this trip to Town.” She smoothed the skirt of her kerseymere carriage dress. “For such a nip-farthing, it must have gone much against his grain to dress me in style.”

Miss Adlestrop glanced dubiously at the gown, an ill fitting creation in a muddy shade of olive. She reflected for the hundredth time on the parsimony of the present earl, and on the wretched taste of the earl’s wife, to whom he had turned over the procuring of Tally’s wardrobe. Not that Lady Tally’s taste in fashion was much better. The girl simply had no concept of how to dress becomingly; nor did she care that her natural appeal was completely obliterated by the dreadful clothes she wore. The governess said nothing of all this, however, merely pointing out that they had reached the outskirts of the city.

Tally whirled to peer through the coach window and was instantly assaulted by the sights, sounds, and smells of the metropolis. “Oh! Oh, yes — we are here—at last!”

She had forgotten the incredible vitality of the place, but as she watched the crowds of passersby and street hawkers, she felt as though she had never been away from the raucous, brawling, sprawling cacophonous hive that was London.

The old carriage, negotiating its way gingerly through winding streets and crooked lanes, finally drew into the narrow confines of Paternoster Row, and lumbered to a stop before Number Three, a shabby building which proclaimed itself the headquarters of George Mapes and Son, Book Publishers. The hazy bulk of St Paul’s loomed in the background.

Without waiting for the assistance of the footman who was unhurriedly climbing down from his perch, Tally flung open the carriage door. Clasped to her bosom, beneath which her heart had suddenly begun to lurch in an alarming manner, was a fat packet of parchment paper.

“Oh, Addie, wish me luck!” she breathed. “I shan’t be long, but if I don’t return shortly, tell Greavey it’s all right to walk the horses. How do I look? Oh, I do wish we had time to stop at Cat’s house so that I could freshen up. Do you think...?”

Miss Adlestrop smiled. “My lady, if you don’t stop chattering like a ninnyhammer, you will be late for your appointment.”

Tally gulped, and in a burst of nervous fury, catapulted herself into the space between the vehicle and the doorway to Mapes and Son, Book Publishers. Unfortunately, that particular space was already occupied by a tall, extremely solid, and definitely masculine body.

The most striking feature of the collision that ensued was the paper flurry it produced. Tally clutched wildly at the gentleman with whom she now found herself entangled in an awkward embrace. Sheets of drawing paper flew into the air and then fell in a swirling cloud. Joining them was a small blizzard of manuscript leaves, which had been wrenched from the gentleman as he gathered Tally into his arms to prevent her from falling.

In the instant during which Tally’s face was pressed into a fragrant shirt front, she became aware of its owner’s almost overpowering masculinity. The next moment, she found herself gazing into a pair of startled, gray eyes.

“You’re not hurt, are you, Miss?”

Tally demonstrated that she was unharmed by pushing firmly against his chest.

He abruptly shifted his attention to the eddies of paper fluttering about them, and scrambled to retrieve his property, ignoring the danger to his superbly tailored pantaloons. Tally, abandoning any attempt at decorum, dropped to her hands and knees beside him, frantically grasping at the fluttering parchment sheets.

“You might warn a fellow before plummeting out of a carriage onto the public thoroughfare,” he continued in some irritation. “Here, that’s mine.” He turned to snatch a fragment from Tally’s hand.

The apology she had been about to utter died on her lips, and stiffening, she favored him with a haughty stare.

“Perhaps,” she snapped, “if you had been watching where you stepped, you would not have—oh, that’s mine!” She plucked a piece of parchment from his fingers.

By now most of the papers had been retrieved by helpful passersby, and by the footman, who had finally come to a sense of his duty. These were thrust at Tally and the gentleman, and it was left to them to continue the sorting-out process. Tally glanced at the sheet uppermost in her pile and noticed that it was covered by a dark, bold scrawl. The first sentence caught her eye.

“Cliffie, what do you say to a toddle in the Park? Then, perhaps we should slide round to the Daffy Club.”

The paper was snatched from her.

“I believe that is mine,” the man remarked coldly as he added it to his own handful. “And these”—ethrust several drawing-covered sheets at her—must be yours.”

Without asking permission, he grabbed the rest of Tally’s collection from her and sifted through them rapidly, retaining some and handing the rest back to her. As he was about to relinquish the last of the parchment sheets, he paused and stood still for a moment, examining the drawing he held in his hand.

He gave a shout of laughter. “By Jove, if that isn’t the Duchess of Wigand to the life!”

Abruptly he grew still, and again without asking permission, drew several more of the parchment sheets from Tally’s hand and examined them closely.

Tally found her voice.

“Now, look here...” she sputtered, but it was as if the young man had not heard her. He continued to peruse the drawings, and it was several moments before he raised his head.

“These are very good,” he said. “Who did them?”

“I cannot see that they are any concern of yours, sir, but as it happens, I am the artist.”

“But...” He peered at her in some puzzlement. “You are a female.”

Tally drew a deep breath and assumed an expression of vapid sweetness that would have boded ill to those who knew her well.

“Your quick perception must be a constant delight to your friends, sir,” she returned smoothly. “You have penetrated my disguise. I am a female. And,” she continued, “those are my drawings. Will you please return them to me at once? I have an appointment with Mr. Mapes.” She nodded toward the ancient facade of Number Three. “I fear I have no more time to waste in chatting with idlers.”

A flush spread over the man’s outrageously handsome features. In some haste, he returned her drawings and lifted his hat. He ran strong fingers through his thick, neatly trimmed thatch of dark hair, and bowed, over the small, wrathful form before him.

“I am sorry—that was stupid of me. It’s just that one is not accustomed to finding a true artist gowned in kerseymere and ribbons.”

Tally, always susceptible to praise of her talent, found her antagonism melting under his words. The charming grin that accompanied them completed the thaw.

“I am Chelmsford,” he continued with a devastating grin, “the Viscount Chelmsford, that is. As it happens, I, too, have an appointment with George Mapes. Shall we go in?”

With a flourish, he opened the door to Number Three and ushered Tally inside. Tally, unaccountably tongue-tied, hurried into the building.

The offices of Mapes and Son occupied the ground floor of the building, and the viscount was evidently well known there. A bespectacled clerk, occupied at a desk in the anteroom, sprang to his feet at their entrance. Ignoring Tally, he advanced toward Chelmsford and bent so low that his nose nearly became caught in his furious hand-washing.

“My lord!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Mapes is waiting for you. May I take your hat, my lord? And your gloves? Would you care for a cup of coffee — or a nip of something stronger, perhaps?”