Elizabeth Powell (6 page)

“Were you in the stables?” her mother persisted.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then where were you?”

Jane studiously avoided Penelope’s curious gaze. “I… I was upstairs.”

“I called for you a quarter of an hour ago. What were you doing that was so important?” Lady Portia demanded.

Jane bit her lip. As much as she hated to lie, no one could know the truth. “I was writing a letter.”

“A letter? To whom?”

She blurted out the first name that came to mind. “To Augustus.”

Her mother’s eyebrows shot skyward. “That Wingate fellow? Do you not think that a trifle forward?”

Jane cringed. If only she had named someone else! Now she had to play through the charade and hope her mother believed her. If not, both she and Pen were in the suds. “We are all but betrothed, Mama.”

“You are not engaged until I say you are,” stated Lady
Portia, her lips pursed, “and until that time I must remind you to conduct yourself with a modicum of restraint. No more billets-doux—do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You are but eighteen, and Penelope, as your elder sister, must marry first. I will not tolerate any more willful disobedience, my girl. I am your mother, and I know what is best. Do not question my authority again.”

“Yes, Mama,” Jane repeated, her expression wooden.

“Come and sit next to me, dearest,” Penelope entreated, patting the vacant stretch of striped sofa beside her.

Jane sat, then accepted the cup Pen offered her. The unspoken question remained in her sister’s eyes, but she ignored it and sipped cautiously at the hot tea.

Lady Portia sighed. “You must learn to be more punctual, Jane. It is quite rude to keep people waiting, especially when it involves such a vital piece of news.”

“Indeed, ma’am?” Jane inquired over the rim of her cup. Not that she needed to ask; gossip had become part of their daily ritual, and, judging by the impatient way her mother tapped one slippered toe on the carpet, she must be ready to burst with the need to reveal the latest tidbit.

“You girls should consider yourselves fortunate; you are among the first to hear this. I had it from Mrs. Ormsley, who had it from Lady Penworth, who in turn heard it directly from Sally Jersey herself, so it must be of the utmost importance.”

Jane and Penelope exchanged a skeptical glance.

Lady Portia leaned forward and lowered her voice as if she feared being overheard. A smug smile curved her mouth. “A gentleman of great standing has moved into the house next door.”

Jane’s cup slipped from her fingers and rattled noisily against its saucer.

Her mother ignored the interruption. “From what I was told, Lord Langley may be only a viscount at the moment, but he is heir to the Earl of Stanhope, who is one of the richest men in England.” Her tone oozed satisfaction. “Think of it, Penelope—we may well be living next door to your future husband!”

“But Mama,” Pen protested, “we know hardly anything about the man.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” retorted Lady Portia. She stirred another lump of sugar into her tea with abrupt swirls of the spoon. “He’s handsome, he’s young, and he’s the heir to a great fortune. What more do you need to know?”

“I would prefer to learn something of his character
before
I reach the altar,” Pen said, a hint of reproach in her voice. “What is he like?”

“Well, from what I have heard, Lord Langley had quite a wild youth—he was quite fond of gambling and won and lost fortunes on the turn of a card. But Mrs. Ormsley said that the earl now expects his son to marry, settle down, and live the life of a respectable gentleman. That is quite enough for me.”

“Then perhaps she should marry him,” Jane whispered to Penelope. Pen giggled.

“Do not be pert, Jane,” snapped Lady Portia.

Jane concentrated on her tea. “No, ma’am.”

“Look at the hour!” Lady Portia gasped. “Come, girls, we have no time to waste. I am told that Lord Langley will be at the Symingtons’ ball this evening. Penelope, you shall wear the white satin with the silver net, and I shall instruct McBride to dress your hair
à la grecque
. And you must wear no jewelry but your pearl necklace;
the viscount must notice you, not your adornments. Everything about your appearance must be perfect.”

Pen turned toward Jane and rolled her eyes.

Lady Portia set down her teacup. “Everything
must
be perfect,” she repeated for emphasis. “Jane, go upstairs and help McBride press and lay out Penelope’s things. That should keep you out of trouble and out of the stables.”

“Mama, there is no need—” Pen began.

Lady Portia cut her off “Nonsense. Jane has nothing better to do, and I’m sure she wants to see you make a successful match as much as I do.”

“But—”

Jane laid a hand on Pen’s arm. There was no use quarrelling about this; their mother’s word was law.

Lady Portia patted the very fashionable, very expensive lace cap that graced her still jet-black hair. “As for you, Penelope, you should go upstairs and rest. You cannot hope to catch the viscount with those dark circles beneath your eyes.”

“I do not have dark circles beneath my eyes, and I do not need to rest,” Pen stated, her expression rebellious. “Honestly, Mama, I am no longer five years old!”

Lady Portia’s regard turned frosty; she pressed her thin lips together. “When I was your age, Penelope, I was a renowned beauty and could have had any man I wanted as a husband. But I was forced to make a great sacrifice for the sake of my impoverished family: I married a wealthy man far beneath my station. Wealth, however, signifies nothing without a title to go with it. I cannot tell you the humiliations I endured—the cuts, the condescension, the laughs and sniggers behind my back. I, the only daughter of the Marquess of Ware, forced to marry a—a farmer!”

Jane took a hasty swallow of tea, lest she give free rein to the angry, reckless words jammed in the back of her throat. Her father had not been a nobody; he may have been a younger son, but he was very well off and very well respected both in the neighborhood and in equestrian circles. But no matter how good a man he was, and no matter how good a husband, Lady Portia had never forgotten his lack of a title. Oddly enough, her father had doted on her mother—at least, he had until her indifference, combined with her flagrant disregard for his honor, had broken down his good nature and driven him to drink.

Lady Portia raised her head at a proud angle. “I have done everything in my power to make sure you have the advantages I never possessed, Penelope, and I refuse to see you waste your time on gentlemen who are not worthy of your beauty. You deserve to be the wife of a peer, and you will be if you follow my instructions. I am doing this all for you, can you not see that?”

Penelope ducked her head, but not before Jane glimpsed the tight set of her sister’s jaw and the tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes.

She hastily set aside her cup and rose. “Come, Pen. I shall walk up with you.”

As they ascended the stairs, Penelope linked her arm through Jane’s. “Thank you, dearest. I do not know how much longer I could have listened to her go on like that. Please do not think me a goose, but if I dare say a word against her she will be in an awful pet for the rest of the week and make life miserable for both of us.”

“I know,” Jane said with a sigh. “She wants you to marry well, which is in itself a noble intention. I cannot be as complimentary about her methods.”

“She is so resolute; she frightens me at times. Oh,
Jane, sometimes I feel… well … trapped. As if I have no control over my life any more.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pen,” Jane remonstrated. “Of course you have control over your life! Mama can throw all sorts of titled ninnies at your head, but ultimately you will choose which one you want to marry—if you choose anyone at all.”

Pen’s fingers tightened on Jane’s sleeve. “I have been thinking about that, dearest, and the most awful notion has occurred to me: what if she decides to pick a husband for me? I am not yet of age, so I would have no option but to marry the man she selects!”

Even though they had not been in London for very long, Pen had already refused two offers of marriage, much to their mother’s displeasure. Given Lady Portia’s determination, Jane would not put it past her mother to arrange a marriage for Penelope.

“Then we must find you a husband before the Season is out,” she stated. “Surely there must be
one
titled bachelor in London who is neither ill favored nor ill mannered and has more weighty matters in his brain-box than the style of his cravat.”

A thin smile appeared on Penelope’s face. “I suppose we shall have to keep attending all these balls and parties so that I may add new names to the List.” She leaned closer to Jane and added, “Is it safe?”

“McBride will never find it,” Jane replied, with what she hoped was an air of confidence. Given the probable location of the List, that much was true, certainly. She gave Pen’s arm a gentle squeeze. “I will return it to you tomorrow, I promise.”

Pen smiled, then glanced downward and gasped. “What did you do to yourself, dearest? Your poor fingers are all scratched.”

Jane resisted the impulse to thrust her hands behind her back. At least none of her bruises was visible! “I fear I was rather clumsy; I tripped on a paving stone and fell onto one of the rose bushes. I’m not sure who came off the worse for the encounter—me or the bush,” she replied lightly. “That was why I was late; if I hadn’t picked the leaves out of my hair, I would have received yet another lecture about my unladylike appearance.”

Penelope hugged her. “Oh, my dearest Jane. Once we are married, neither of us will have to worry ever again about Mama’s good opinion.”

Jane smiled back, trying to keep the worry and heart-sickness from her face. Pen had entrusted her with the List, and she had let her sister down. She could not bear the thought of exposing Pen to censure and ridicule, much less Lady Portia’s wrath. She had to get the List back before tomorrow afternoon. She
would
get it back, even if it meant the possibility of encountering the roguish Viscount Langley once more.

That is, she would if nothing else went wrong.

The Symingtons’ ball, supposedly one of the great social events of the Season, reminded Viscount Langley of nothing so much as a giant aviary. Throughout the house, the crush of gaily feathered guests preened, posed, and paraded their fine plumage before one another. They cawed and chirped among themselves, identifying potential mates and assessing potential rivals. Here and there the chirping escalated into a minor squabble that ruffled a few feathers, but the well-established pecking order kept such displays to a minimum. On the whole, the flock seemed content to migrate from room to room, twittering in dissonant chorus.

When the butler announced his arrival, all eyes swiveled in his direction, and for a moment Sebastian was sorely tempted to turn right around and take himself off to a comfortable, smoke-filled gaming hell. But since he could not afford that option, he gritted his teeth and did his best to endure the squawking his presence engendered. Now he remembered why he so despised these Society gatherings.

“So, how does it feel to be back in fashionable Society?”
Jace slanted Sebastian an appraising look as the three of them ambled toward the ballroom.

“Rather like I’m being eyed by a flock of vultures,” replied the viscount with a growl.

Lord Nigel chuckled. “I thought you were here to play the part of the hunter, old boy, not the hunted.”

Sebastian glared at him. “Tell
that
to all these dratted females. Egad, ever since we walked through that door I’ve been ogled by every single one, even the Dowager Marchioness of Edgebury, and she’s eighty if she’s a day.”

“News travels quickly,” Jace commented.

“Like the plague,” Nigel added with an infuriating grin.

“It’s disconcerting, I tell you.” The viscount pasted a smile on his face and forced himself to nod to Lady Bartleby, who drifted past him in a cloud of patchouli perfume, fluttering both her fan and her eyelashes with equal fervor. The cloying scent nearly gagged him; he held his breath until the patchouli fumes dissipated. “Two days ago I was nothing but a wastrel; women would snatch their daughters away if I so much as looked at them, and my presence was barely tolerated in polite company. Now I’m considered a man of distinction, and those same ladies are throwing their daughters at my head.”

Nigel snickered. “Makes it easier to catch them.”

Sebastian ignored him.

“You’re heir to a wealthy earldom,” Jace pointed out, “and on an acknowledged quest for a wife. You should have expected this.”

“If I had, you would never have gotten me through the front door.” The viscount snagged a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and took a
large sip, relishing the effervescence of the tart vintage. “I suspect this sudden interest is partly my father’s doing; no one else was privy to our discussion. I know the way he thinks. A few words in the right ear, and all of London knows about our agreement. And the more people who know, the more humiliated and ostracized I shall be if I cry off. He’s a cunning bastard, I’ll give him that.”

“Careful, ‘Bastian,” Havelock advised. “I know that look on your face. Do not allow your anger against your father to prod you into doing something you will regret.”

Sebastian’s mouth curved in a mirthless smile. “Ever playing the part of my conscience, aren’t you, Jace? Well, you need not concern yourself on my account. Remember, I have a plan of my own. Let’s get to it, then. Nigel, see if you can spot a likely heiress for me.”

Lord Nigel led them to the edge of the ballroom floor, then craned his neck and surveyed the crowd. “Ah … you see that Amazonian redhead over near the orchestra? The one who towers above her circle of admirers? That’s Miss Hastings, from Yorkshire. Father’s a baronet, I believe. She has ten thousand pounds, which is enough to make one overlook her rather horsey attributes.”

“That is ungallant of you, Nigel,” Jace objected. “You hardly know the lady.”