Charlotte Louise Dolan (20 page)

“Very well, I shall attend this evening, but I beg you to consider leaving at a good hour. And I am hereby serving notice that tomorrow I intend to stay in my room all day, and you may make whatever excuses to our visitors that you think fit.”

“That is doubtless a good idea, my dear, so that you will have adequate rest and be able to enjoy the musical soiree at the Randolphs’ in the evening, after which I thought we would stop in for a while at a little party the Gibbarts are holding for a few special friends.”

“Aunt Theo!”

Apparently her aunt heard the total outrage in Elizabeth’s voice, for a look of wariness came over the older woman’s face and she conceded in a most reluctant voice, “Very well, if you insist, we shall forgo the party, although I do think it will not hurt if we merely look in for the briefest of moments.”

“You may look in for as long as you wish and not come home until six in the morning if that is your preference. I, however, shall not go to either the musical or the party. I shall go to the ball tonight, but after that I have no intention of budging out of my room for at least two days, maybe longer. And you need not think to get your way by sulking. If you even breathe so much as another word about any more activities you have planned for me, I shall also forgo the dubious pleasures of the dance this evening.”

Her aunt got a very crafty look on her face. “Simon will be there tonight, do not forget.”

Virtually incoherent with rage, Elizabeth turned on her heel and stalked out of her aunt’s boudoir. Simon, indeed! It was all she could do lately not to wring his neck—and her cousin’s as well. Every time Elizabeth sought to elude his company, Florie was right there accepting his invitations in both their names, moving aside to let him sit between them on the settee, and in general treating him as if he were one of the family.

The devil take the lot of them. If Darius did not come to her rescue soon, she was going to take Maggie and Dorie and move into Colthurst Hall and damn the impropriety of such an action!

* * * *

“My dearly beloved Elizabeth.” Simon contemplated the sheet of vellum laid before him, then scratched out “dearly.” “My beloved Elizabeth.” Yes, that had a better rhythm to it.

The note had taken longer to compose than he had anticipated, and he was starting to feel the pressure of time. If he were not careful, he would have only three hours in which to dress for the Wynchcombes’ ball. Already Mellers was starting to fidget, clearing his throat and in general acting in such a way as to make sure Simon did not become so involved in polishing his words that he lost all track of the time.

“Our two hearts shall beat as one, and we must fly together to the stars.” Yes, that had a nice ring to it. Of course, they weren’t actually flying to the stars, just to his hunting lodge. It was really too bad that little Corsican upstart with his grandiose pretensions made it impossible to fly to Paris. It would be a delight to outfit Elizabeth in the latest French mode.

There, that should do it. Simon surveyed his literary effort with great satisfaction. “Here, Mellers, read this and tell me what you think.”

His valet obediently took the page and read what was inscribed upon it. “If you would not mind a suggestion, sir? Perhaps a trifle more humility?”

“I? Humility? Good God, man, what have I to be humble about? In what way do I fall short of perfection?”

“No, no, you mistake my meaning. I never meant to imply any deficiency. I only meant the ladyfolk seem to be highly partial to such—”

“Ah, you mean something along the line of ‘Unworthy as I am even to touch the hem of your gown’—that sort of thing.”

“Precisely. I have never known it to fail to turn the housemaids up sweet, and I misdoubt there is that much difference between a maid and a lady.”

“None at all when the lights are out, Mellers.” With a chuckle at his own wit, Simon dipped his quill in the inkwell and judiciously added a few lines. “There, it is finished. It only remains for you to copy it in your best hand. Elizabeth could never read my chicken scratchings, I am afraid, and I would not wish to risk a misunderstanding at this late date. Not with all the arrangements in order. You have notified them at the lodge to expect our arrival?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir. And the coachman will be in position just around the corner from Lord Wynchcombe’s house. There are two grooms there already to make sure a space is kept free. The changes of horses have been bespoke, and Pierre himself has supervised the filling of a basket with delicacies, in the event that either you or your companion require sustenance along the way. If I say so myself, I do not believe there is a single thing that we have not anticipated.”

“Then let us proceed.”

“Very well. Might I venture to suggest that you consider wearing your new red waistcoat?”

“Red? Is that not a trifle daring for an evening party?”

“To be sure, but this is a daring undertaking, and perhaps one should dress to suit the role?”

Simon allowed himself to be persuaded, and was quite pleased with the end result. It was safe to say that he would cause a sensation among the young bucks aspiring to reach the heights of elegance that he achieved almost effortlessly, and it was too bad, in a way, that he would have to leave midway during the dance. But that was necessary to avoid the awkwardness sure to ensue should Elizabeth’s aunt catch wind of what was afoot— or, even worse, if that meddling busybody, Lady Letitia, were to get an inkling of his intentions.

In that, as in all else, Mellers was without equal. He had managed to make contact with one of the newer footmen employed by Lord Wynchcombe and, by liberally greasing the man’s palm, had gotten him to agree not only to deliver a note to Elizabeth during the dance—surreptitiously, of course—but also to provide Simon with an anteroom where he could be private with her.

Let Lady Letitia try to counter that move!

* * * *

“I have told you repeatedly not to sit that way. You will never catch a husband if you cannot learn to comport yourself in a more ladylike manner.” Florie scowled at her sister, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.

As usual, Dorie paid no heed. “Speaking of catching a husband, what progress have you made with your plans to bring Simon up to scratch? As far as I could tell, he paid you not the slightest attention when he came to call this morning. Perhaps you ought to aim a little lower. Lord Pinefold would undoubtedly collapse at your feet if you so much as smiled at him.”

“Lord Pinefold—ugh! Have you not noticed how his fingers look like uncooked sausages? But, wait, how do you know what Simon did this morning? You were not in the room.”

“Well, actually ...”

“What do you mean, you little sneak? Were you up to your old tricks of hiding behind the furniture?”

With a giggle Dorie was off the bed and darting out the door, and as usual, Florie was not quite quick enough to catch her. “I’m going to tell Mama this time, see if I don’t, and you will have nothing to eat but bread and water for a week.”

Dorie stopped in the hallway just out of reach and taunted, “Just try that, Sister dear, and I shall tell Mama about our bet. She may banish me to the nursery for taking part in such a wager, but you won’t escape with your skin intact, either. I know exactly what her opinion will be—that it is all monstrously vulgar, much more so than sitting cross-legged. And as easygoing as she is, she draws the line at any behavior that smacks of being common.”

There was nothing Florie could say in response to that, so she had to make do with slamming the door, which did little to relieve her feelings.

The whole root of her problem was Simon, blast the man. How could he be so blind as to ignore her charms so totally? She had given him every encouragement, every opportunity, and he had wasted them all. Even the week before, when she had pretended to twist her ankle, he had not picked her up in his arms, but had merely signaled to his coachman to bring the carriage over and had then allowed his groom to assist her into the vehicle.

All she had gained for her efforts was to be sent home early, while Simon had stayed behind to walk with Elizabeth.

Bah, the man was singularly obtuse! What she needed to do was force his hand—to arrange to be caught with him in a compromising position, so that he would be unable to do anything except offer her the protection of his name.

Florie smiled slyly. It was such an old trick, and she was sure Simon was more than adept at eluding such traps. But that was one thing she had managed in the last several weeks—he was now so used to her company, he would not suspect the slightest duplicity on her part until it was too late for him to escape.

* * * *

Dorie was sitting in the study, idly turning the pages of a book about the history of the English monarchy. Alone, as usual—bored, as usual—and wishing, as usual, that Beth didn’t have to go to all those stupid parties.

According to Florie, all that would change once she herself was old enough to have a Season of her own, but Dorie was not so sure. She had hidden more than once in the little alcove off the sitting room and spied on the company assembled there for tea and gossip, and a more boring group of know-nothings she had never encountered. Why, even the stable boys’ talk was more interesting to listen to—and much more educational.

On the other hand, perhaps it might be fun to waltz until dawn. No, not if it meant being held in the arms of someone like Lord Pinefold, and there were certainly enough of his type. Not that the ones like Simon were any better.

When she grew up, she was going to marry a soldier like Darius, only she was not going to stay home and knit socks; she was going to follow the drum and have all sorts of adventures.

There was a sound of voices in the hall, and something about them caught her attention. She leapt to her feet, spilling the book off her lap, and darted to the door in time to see the butler about to usher a familiar figure out the door.

“Darius, you’re home. Wait, don’t go!”

The Duke of Colthurst, late a major in his Majesty’s service, turned in time to catch the laughing hoyden who threw herself into his arms. “Well, brat, and what have you to say for yourself?”

“Oh, I am so glad you are home. Have you come to rescue us? We are bored to flinders with London.”

“We?” He set his cousin-in-law back on her feet.

“Beth and I. We have been hoping and hoping that you would come soon. When can we go to Colthurst Hall? You did plan to take me with you, didn’t you? If you leave me here with Mama and Florie, it will be the meanest thing imaginable.”

“With your mother’s permission—”

“Oh, you won’t have any trouble on that score. She would have shipped me off somewhere already if she had only bethought herself of someone who could take me in. I try not to plague her and Florie, really I do, Darius—but London is tedious beyond words. All that the people seem to
care about is gossip, gossip, gossip. None of them wants to play a game of patience or spillikins. And Beth is now too exhausted from all the parties Mama drags her to go exploring around town, and I can’t go to any of their parties because I am not out yet, although I do think they may be every bit as boring. What is your opinion? Are the dances and parties any more enjoyable than sitting around sipping tea and ripping one another’s reputations to shreds?”

Darius forced a smile he was not really feeling. “I think when you grow up, you will find them interesting enough. Most young ladies do. But, for now, if you are sure your mother will be agreeable to your accompanying us to Colthurst Hall, you may tell your maid to start packing. I have already informed Hodson that my wife must be ready to leave as soon as possible.”

“Darius, you are a real trump.” Dorie raced for the stairs, which she took two at a time. Stopping halfway up, she turned for one last word. “You had better go to the Wynchcombes’ and rescue Beth. She will be delighted to see you there, for she has been in an absolute agony of suspense waiting for your return.”

That Elizabeth had been in an agony of suspense he could well believe. That she was anticipating his return with anything approaching delight he doubted most strongly.

Walking along the street, he considered his options. He could go to one of the clubs of which he was a nominal member, or head for the nearest gin house to drink himself into a stupor, or retire to his rooms to brood, but none of the options appealed to him so much as checking up on his wife. If he interfered with whatever diversions she had planned for this night, so much the better.

On the other hand, if he were to appear at the Wynchcombes’ ball, he would have to change into more suitable attire. He had stopped at his rooms long enough to wash away the travel dirt, but had not thought it necessary to rig himself out in full evening dress.

Two hours in London, and already forced to change clothes twice. It was enough to aggravate the most patient of men, of which he was not one.

“St. John! By God, ‘tis St. John!”

Darius turned to see Charles Neuce approaching, accompanied by three other men whose faces were only vaguely familiar. Before he could avoid it, his friend had caught him by the arm and was peering up at him.

“When did you get back, St. John? How long was you planning to stay this time? If you’re here on Friday, you must come cheer me to victory—I am racing Kelland to Brighton. At least, I think it’s to Brighton—maybe it’s Bath? I know it’s someplace that starts with a B.”

It was obvious to Darius that the four men were already quite well to go, and he was trying to think of some way to extricate himself from their company without giving offense.

“Beg pardon. Ain’t St. John.” One of the other men in the group leaned toward Charles and spoke in what he appeared to think was a confidential voice.

“What d’ya mean it ain’t St. John? Known him for years. ‘Course it’s St. John.”

Taking advantage of the distraction, Darius carefully removed his friend’s hand from his sleeve and began strolling casually on down the street, listening to the voices that gradually grew fainter and fainter behind him.