Anne Barbour (7 page)

For once Chloe was silent, merely staring doubtfully at her idol. Hester laughed.

“Well. I have given you much to chew on. Perhaps you will wish to think over what I have said before deciding what you think is of value and what you may wish to throw out the window. But, if I might suggest...”

Chloe did not respond, but she lifted her expressive brows.

“Return to London with your guardian,” continued Hester. “Attend the dinner party with good grace and be courteous to Mr. Wery and his parents. If nothing else, by doing so you will throw Lord Bythorne into utter confusion.”

“But, what will all that accomplish?” asked Chloe in some indignation. “If I am nice to John Wery, will I not find myself at the altar that much sooner?”

“Mm, perhaps, but perhaps not. Just what is it that your guardian finds so desirable in Mr. Wery?”

“Well—he’s steady and reliable and dependable and all those boring things, and he has his own estate, which produces a comfortable income.”

“I see. Formidable attributes indeed. Does he not have any flaws? Does he gamble, or is he a womanizer?”

“No,” replied Chloe bitterly. “He is a perfect pattern card of virtue. Do you wonder that I cannot abide him?”

Hester’s lips twitched. “He sounds perfectly impossible. I wonder,” she added thoughtfully after a moment, “if you should adjust your strategy.”

Chloe glanced at her questioningly.

“I think we discussed the possibility before that instead of trying to convince Lord Bythorne to abandon his campaign to wed you to Mr. Wery, perhaps you should be endeavoring to convince Mr. Wery that you are not the bride for him.”

Chloe’s expression changed slowly to one of comprehension. “Mm, yes, I recall your advice, but so far I have done nothing to create an aversion to me.”

Hester nodded. “I do not mean that you should plunge yourself into a scandal, of course,” she said hastily, “but simply get to know him well—his preferences, his plans for the future, et cetera, and then make him realize that you will not fit in with his desires.”

“Yes,” chimed Chloe eagerly. “I have never expounded at any length on my theories of feminism, but if I were to do so . . .”

“Mr. Wery would no doubt begin to view you with the utmost alarm.”

“Yes. And if I were to make it clear that I relish living in London and have no intention of rusticating on a fusty little estate in Hertfordshire and ...”

“Do you enjoy life in London so much?” asked Hester in surprise.

“Well, no. In fact, my happiest times with Uncle Thorne have been the months we’ve stayed at Bythorne Park, but Mr. Wery need not know that, and I think,” concluded Chloe judiciously, “that since he is the thrifty sort, I shall make it a point of remarking on the number and the cost of my gowns—and on the quantity of jewels I shall require as a married lady—with some slight exaggeration, of course.”

Hester laughed outright. “You will have the poor man fleeing in alarm inside a fortnight.” She sobered a little. “On the other hand, you might want to reexamine your position with Lord Bythorne. Now that we have decided he truly has your best interests at heart, there is really no point in setting his back up needlessly, is there? I mean, if he does mistreat you—”

“Oh no. In fact, when I first came to live with him and Aunt Lavinia, I quite liked him. He is so handsome, and he always shared the latest
on-dits
with me—well, some of them, anyway, for despite his own scandalous reputation,” she continued austerely, “he is quite strict with me. And he never minded my attending feminist lectures, or reading your books and pamphlets. He considers them of such little account, you see,” she added in explanation.

“Does he?” replied Hester, an edge to her voice.

“Oh yes,” said Chloe, unheeding. “When I told him I wished to go to the lecture you gave at the Assembly Building in Westminster, he simply laughed, and asked if I shouldn’t like him to take me to see the learned pig on display at the Bartholomew Fair as well.”

“I see.” Hester’s voice could have cut glass. She rose abruptly. “Why don’t you get your things together, Chloe, and I shall inform his lordship of your decision to return home with him.”

By the time Chloe had retrieved her belongings and bade a tearful farewell to Sarah, and the Wendovers had expressed their regret once again for their unwitting participation in dear Chloe’s defection, the afternoon was well advanced. As the earl and his little party prepared to mount the hired carriage, he turned to Hester.

“It will be well after dark by the time we reach Over-cross, I fear, and there will be no moon tonight. I think we should simply proceed to Bythorne Park. We can send this carriage back and ride to your home tomorrow at our leisure in the comfort of one of my vehicles.”

Still simmering from Chloe’s ingenuous description of Lord Bythorne’s view of her work, Hester would have liked to dispute this high-handed arrangement. She found herself welcoming his invitation, however. She did not look forward to a long ride in the ill-sprung post chaise, and a glance at Larkie’s countenance told her that the older woman was fatigued, as well.

The earl sent a rider to travel ahead of them to announce their imminent arrival at the Park, and the group set off with no further incident.

The manor house at Bythorne Park was a sprawling structure of early Tudor origin. The ancient brick glowed rosily and mullioned windows glittered in the late-afternoon sunlight. Somewhat to Hester’s surprise, they were greeted promptly by a smiling butler and his wife, who apparently acted as housekeeper when the family was not in residence. Inside the house, all was in immaculate order, as though the master had given notice days ago of his arrival.

Glancing at her, Thorne smiled.

“Since the Park is so close to London,” he said, “I invite people here fairly frequently—or sometimes I just use it as a refuge. I keep the place fully staffed, so that I can descend more or less at a moment’s notice.”

“A refuge?” queried Hester.

“Mm. I am at heart a creature of the city, but once in a while the noise and the bustle get to be too much, even for a dedicated urban dweller. The Park holds many warm memories for me, so I enjoy its peace and solitude.”

Hester glanced at him, again surprised. A grin curved his well-formed lips, and she found it was not so difficult after all to imagine the earl as a small boy scrambling up the trees that surrounded the house or swimming in the lake that could be seen shining in the distance.

The housekeeper Mrs. Pym showed Hester and Miss Larkin to their adjoining rooms, and these, too, looked as though they had been kept in readiness for visitors. Fresh flowers stood on the rosewood commode in Hester’s chamber, and brushes, combs, and a mirror lay on a charming dressing table.

“His lordship keeps country hours here at the Park,” said the housekeeper, whose face displayed only a certain discreet curiosity as she poured water from a graceful pitcher into a basin. “We shall be dining at six, about an hour from now. His lordship usually meets with his guests beforehand in the green salon. If you’ll ring when you are ready to go down, someone will show you the way.” She smiled, and with one last glance about the room, curtsied and hurried out with a rustle of bombazine skirts.

It was too bad, thought Hester as she removed her rather utilitarian shawl, that she had not brought something into which she could change for dinner. Although, she reflected with a laugh, there was nothing in her wardrobe at home that would not look sadly out of place in this fairy-princess bedroom. Shrugging, she availed herself of the cool water in the basin—scented, of course—to bathe her face, and the combs and brushes to repair her hair from the ravages of the day’s travel. She reaffixed her cap firmly, and some moments later, she followed a maidservant along the corridor, having collected Larkie along the way.

“Gracious, Hester,” said that lady, her eyes wide and sparkling, “have you ever seen such elegance? My room is furnished with everything one could want for an overnight stay—even cruets of scent and books on the bedside table!”

“Enjoy it while you may, my friend,” replied Hester with a chuckle, “for tomorrow we return to our cinder pile by the hearth at Rosemere.”

The ladies, having been led without incident through broad corridors and stately staircases, were eventually ushered into a large, airy chamber furnished in the first stare of elegance. Long windows, hung with emerald damask, looked out over velvety parkland. Lord Bythorne sat at his ease on a satin striped settee, deep in conversation with his ward. He rose as his guests entered the room.

“I trust you have been made comfortable. Miss Blayne, Miss Larkin,” he inquired smoothly, expressing gratification at their affirmative response.

Chloe was simply gowned in white muslin, over which lay a tunic of pink sarcenet that reflected the delicate color of her cheeks. Pink ribbons threaded through her dark curls completed her ensemble and she looked, thought Hester, absolutely charming. Mr. John Wery must be a very undiscriminating suitor indeed to confine his conversation to sheep and crops while in her presence.

The girl had evidently decided to follow her preceptress’s advice, for her demeanor was equally charming. She maintained a deferential courtesy through dinner, saying little, and any discomfort she might have been suffering as a result of her aborted escape to freedom was in little evidence as she made an excellent meal of Davenport fowls, stuffed and roasted in butter, baked carp dressed in the Portuguese way, and a variety of vegetables in appropriate sauces.

Larkie, seemingly overwhelmed by her grand surroundings, remained subdued. Thus it was left to Hester and Thorne to maintain a conversation that remained surprisingly convivial.

Truth to tell, Thorne was more than a little amused at the presence of the country’s foremost feminist at his table. In her plain round gown, with that absurd cap tied tightly beneath her chin, and her eyes glinting shrewdly, she was as out of place as a wren in a gilded canary cage. Lord, what would his London cronies think if they were to walk into the room right now to find the Earl of Bythorne dining
a quatre
in splendor with his ward and two spinsters from an obscure village on the fringe of Surrey? They’d consider him well round the bend, of course. Not that he cared for the opinions of a parcel of jaded roués from the hells of St. James’s. In addition, to his surprise, he found he was enjoying his conversation with the redoubtable Miss Blayne.

“So you do not think Byron a dark and dangerous man?” he asked idly.

“Not nearly so dangerous as he would have his readers believe,” retorted Hester with some asperity. “I think him a very good poet, but he would be a much better one if he would stop all that ludicrous brooding and soul-searching.”

Thorne laughed. “The ladies of the
ton
would cast you into the nearest pit were they to hear such sentiments of one of their favorites. For even though he departed this sceptered isle in disgrace—or perhaps because of it—he is still much talked of.”

“Yes, I suppose they would.” Hester smiled. “I have grown accustomed to ostracism, however, and it bothers me not in the slightest.”

Thorne dissected with his fork the damson pie that had just been placed before him. “I understand”—he glanced at Chloe—”that you are the daughter of a peer, Miss Blayne, and your family name is an ancient and honorable one. If you had so chosen, you could have taken your place among the ranks of the privileged. Do you not regret taking another path?”

Hester considered his question, cocking her head to one side in what Thorne found an unexpectedly endearing gesture.

“No,” she said at last with a spurt of laughter. “I rather consider it an escape from prison. I spent a term there— what most people would call a Season—and I was never so bored in my life. The whole time was spent in places I would rather not have been, conversing with persons who appeared to have not one idea to rub against another.”

What a strange little woman she was, thought Thorne in surprise. Her eyes were really quite beautiful, but set in such a plain little face. ... Or no, she was not in truth plain, was she? Her nose was well shaped, above a mouth that curved full and warm, particularly when she was laughing, and a round little chin that seemed created for cupping in one’s fingers. It was her militant expression that made her so unattractive, he decided, plus, of course, her dowdy clothes—to say nothing of the starchy caps of linen and lace she wore pinned to hair pulled back so tightly it must make her eyes water. He smiled. Despite her best efforts, a few tendrils always escaped to curl temptingly about her cheeks.

It was a lovely color—her hair. He tried to picture it unconfined and hanging down her back. Would a man feel compelled to fill his hands with it? To run its silken length through his fingers?

Steady on, old horse, he thought, startled. Of all the women of his acquaintance, this particular female was the least likely candidate for a spot of dalliance. He pulled his mind back to what she was saying, something about the corn laws, for God’s sake.

“Well, do you, my lord?” she was saying.

“Do I what, Miss Blayne?”

She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Do you not agree that the law in its present state is positively iniquitous?”

Thorne was about to utter a pat rejoinder when Miss Blayne continued tartly, “My lord, if you are about to tell me not to worry my pretty little head about such matters, I may be forced to disembowel you.” She waved her dessert fork menacingly.

Larkie gasped, and Chloe raised her head, startled. Thorne burst into laughter. “Having been forewarned, I shall do nothing of the sort. But, you must admit,” he concluded slyly, “it is highly unusual for a female to express herself so vehemently on a subject that does not involve fashion or household management, or—

“Or how to entice a husband,” finished Hester, laying aside her weapon but retaining the acid in her tone.

Not that the little termagant would be able to converse sensibly on any of those topics, thought the earl. Particularly the latter. Lord, he pitied the man who found himself leg-shackled to the self-righteous Miss Blayne. He would be sliced to shreds by that double-bladed tongue inside a fortnight.