Elizabeth Thornton (3 page)

Harriet laughed. “Don’t be so stuffy, Daniel. Who do you think told me about Miss Munro? Besides, females are not blind and deaf, you know. We know about mistresses. And Abbie is no schoolgirl. She’s lived in the world. She knows the score. And if she doesn’t, it’s time she did.”

Daniel appealed to his mother. “Mother, have you no control over your daughter?”

Her ladyship ignored this moot question. “I want to hear what Abbie has to say.”

Abbie’s brain was reeling. Hugh had a mistress? And not just any mistress. Barbara Munro was the leading light of Drury Lane Theater. On her way home from Paris, when she stopped off in London, Abbie had seen Miss Munro in performance and had been enthralled. Hugh had accompanied her and he’d been bored.
Philistine
, she’d laughingly called him.
Barbara Munro is divine
, she said, and Hugh had stifled a yawn.

She didn’t know where her family was getting its information, but obviously they’d made a mistake. Barbara Munro was an exciting, vibrant woman, and her legion of lovers were equally exciting. Hugh and Barbara Munro? It couldn’t be true.

Abbie took a deep breath. “You misconstrued the situation—that’s what I have to say. Hugh did not go with me to Paris. I already told you that George was our
escort. Hugh arrived later, and the only reason he escorted Miss Fairbairn and me home was because George wanted to stay on.”

“What was Templar doing in Paris?” asked Daniel.

“He was …,” Abbie had to think before she answered. “Hugh is a diplomat. He spent a good deal of time at the embassy.”

“Strange,” said Daniel. “I understood Templar had resigned from the foreign office, and that’s why he came to reside in Bath.”

“Well, he did,” said Abbie, trying to remember what Hugh had told her, “but there are loose ends that only he can tie up.” Those were Hugh’s exact words. “And from time to time, he is invited to Whitehall to consult with the minister on matters of policy.”

Harriet made a rude sound. “To consult with his ladybird more like! Abbie, I despair of you. You’re so naive about men.”

Abbie’s eyes flashed with uncharacteristic fire. “A moment ago, you said that I knew the score. Now you’re calling me naive. You can’t have it both ways, you know, Harriet.”

“Not with most people, perhaps. But with you, anything is possible. It was the same with our father. One couldn’t help loving him, of course, but …”

Lady Clivendon cut in impatiently, “None of that is to the point. What I wish to know is, can Mr. Templar be brought up to scratch with a little encouragement from Abbie?”

“Let me disabuse you of that notion at once,” declared Abbie. “Hugh is a confirmed bachelor. He’s far more interested in Roman antiquities and his books than he is in females.”

“I thought it was too good to be true,” said Lady

Clivendon, sighing. “Templar and our Abbie? I just couldn’t see it.”

Neither could Abbie. In the first place, Hugh was a confirmed bachelor, and in the second place, she valued Hugh’s friendship too much to jeopardize it by playing the flirt, a role she’d never had much success with anyway. Beaux, she’d learned from sad experience, came and went. No, she didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize her friendship with Hugh. If she lost him, it would make a hole in her life that no one else could fill.

It was astonishing how much they had in common. They were never at a loss for words. They were both members of the Antiquarians’ Society, which met every month in members’ homes; they were both avid readers, though the scope of Hugh’s education was far superior to hers. Their minds were in tune—but that was as far as it went. They did not share their feelings at a deeper level, nor did she want to. She was no longer the starry-eyed girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. It had taken her a long time, but she’d finally found her niche. She fitted in. She had friends who were comfortable to be with and who were comfortable with her—friends like Hugh.

Comfortable
. That was the word that came to mind when she thought of Hugh.

Except for one memorable occasion, she silently amended. Six months ago, when he came to Bath to settle a relative’s estate, they’d been introduced at a meeting of the Antiquarians’ Society. She’d decided then that Hugh Templar could easily be the reincarnation of a Roman centurion: hard, chiseled features; watchful amber eyes; and a physique that was honed for combat. When he took her hand in his and bowed over it, she’d been overcome by a vague sense of danger, a feeling she recognized as thoroughly feminine in nature.

But she had quickly realized that Hugh Templar wasn’t interested in females. He was a real scholar, a former fellow at Oxford University, and a fund of knowledge on all things Roman and Greek. It wasn’t a beautiful woman that made Hugh’s heart beat faster, but the Roman ruins in and around Bath.

Daniel said, “Well, I’m not going to make up my mind until I talk to Templar in person. Perhaps I should stay for another week. When did you say he was expected back, Abbie?”

Appalled, Abbie sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “Now you listen to me,” she said, looking squarely at each person in turn. “You’re not going to palm me off on poor Hugh just because it will relieve your minds to think that someone else is taking care of me. I am not a piece of baggage to be passed from hand to hand.” When they began to protest, she held up a hand, silencing them. “I am twenty-seven years old. I am responsible for my own actions. I don’t need a man to take care of me.”

She scraped back her chair and slowly got to her feet. “Even if Hugh were to offer for me, I wouldn’t accept him. I wouldn’t accept any man. I am my own mistress. All that would change if I married.

“I am always happy to see any member of my family,” she went on, bending the truth a little, “but I won’t stand for your meddling. Make up your minds to it here and now—I am not the marrying kind of woman.”

Their shocked stares were vastly gratifying, and even more gratifying was the knowledge that she had finally stood up to her formidable family. Aunt Abigail would have been proud of her.

It was the perfect moment to make her exit.

I’m not the marrying kind of woman
.

Her bold declaration stayed with Abbie all through the Gardiners’ delightful party, all through Maria Gardiner’s accomplished performance on the pianoforte, lingering into the delectable late supper, persisting on the short carriage drive home, and following her into her own bedchamber, when she finally shut the door on the world and allowed her smile to slip.

As an exit line, it was superlative. How close it came to the truth was open to question. It wasn’t that she wasn’t the marrying kind of woman so much as she’d outgrown her girlish dreams and yearnings.

And at seven and twenty, she told herself with grim humor, it was no bad thing. There was nothing more pathetic than an aging spinster who refused to face facts. As a young girl, she’d dreamed of being swept into a grand passion; she’d longed to meet her soul mate. Experience and the passage of time had muted her desires. Now she was content to have a few close friends who shared her interests.

She dwelt on that thought as she began to disrobe. She was still thinking about it when she sat at her dressing table to brush out her hair. Her head was aching; her stomach was churning. If this was the result of having her family come for a visit, she’d do well to move to the wilds of Africa and see them only once in ten years.

The thought was unworthy. She really did love her family. Besides, they weren’t responsible for her headache and churning stomach, except indirectly. It was the specter of marriage that had led to all this introspection; that’s what had opened the doors to memories she didn’t want to think about. It was the strain of trying to appear a woman who was having the time of her life. It was the
fear that if she let down her guard, she would become an object of pity. That’s why she always told people that she would never marry.

And it was the truth, wasn’t it?

Then why was she so restless? Why was she questioning the path she had chosen for herself? Only yesterday she’d been happy. Now she didn’t know where she was.

Or maybe it was that she didn’t know
who
she was.

As if to plumb the enigma of her existence, she studied her reflection in the mirror. A girl with large gray eyes in an oval face, framed with fairish hair, stared back at her. She was pleasant enough to look upon, she supposed, but not in the same class as her sister. Harriet had had men falling all over her since she was a girl in pinafores. It wasn’t Harriet’s fault that the man she, Abbie, had hoped to marry had taken one look at Harriet and fallen violently in love with her. And had proposed, and was accepted, and was now Abbie’s brother-in-law. It wasn’t Giles’s fault either. She’d read too much into his kisses, he’d told her. What he felt for her was affection. It was Harriet he loved.

Her mother had given her no sympathy. Men did not admire clever females, she’d told Abbie. If she would only stop spouting poetry and flaunting her knowledge of subjects no one was interested in, she would stand a better chance. She should take Harriet as her model. No one would dream of calling Harriet a bluestocking. Her nose wasn’t forever in a book. Harriet had put her time to better use. She’d mastered all the feminine arts. She knew how to flirt. She knew when to melt and when to play hard to get.

When her heart mended and she became used to the idea of Giles as her brother-in-law, she’d tried to follow

Mama’s advice. But all it achieved was that something inside her, something precious and fragile, had withered away and quietly died.

Aunt Abigail, wise old Aunt Abigail, had brought it back to life. She’d taught her that
bluestocking
and
old maid
were only words. They couldn’t hurt her. The important thing was to be true to herself. Yet here she was, all in a flutter, because someone had mentioned marriage in connection with her.

And with Hugh.

She let the thought revolve in her mind. It couldn’t be true. It was one of the things they were supposed to have in common, this aversion to the wedded state. They’d even joked about it. Marriage would clip his wings, Hugh had said. He was too set in his ways. He liked living alone, where he could come and go as he pleased. And she’d agreed with him.

If there was a warning in his words, it was unnecessary. She’d stopped thinking of marriage a long time ago. But just in case Hugh had doubts about her, she’d taken extra pains to do or say nothing that could be taken the wrong way. And she wasn’t the type to set a man’s blood on fire. She was no Harriet, no Barbara Munro.

She frowned when she thought of Hugh with a mistress. She should have anticipated something like this. Even an old fogy like Major Danvers had a mistress. But nothing would persuade her that Hugh had attached someone like Barbara Munro. And as for pensioning her off, the idea was laughable. What man in his right mind would pension off Barbara Munro?

So, Hugh probably had a mistress tucked away somewhere. She could live with that. She wasn’t jealous, she told herself. It was just that Hugh was a good friend, and she didn’t want anything to spoil that friendship.

Everyone was entitled to keep his own little secrets. Still, it did seem odd that she should be the last to know what Hugh was up to. In fact, when she thought about it, really thought about it, she didn’t know much about Hugh at all.

Her eyes lost focus and she gazed into space. When she came to herself, she frowned at her reflection. There was nothing more pathetic than an aging spinster who refused to face facts. On that thought, she picked up her hairbrush and dragged it violently through her hair.

H
ugh Templar entered his rented house in Royal Crescent and asked himself, not for the first time, what the devil he was doing in Bath. In summer, Bath was tolerable. In February, it was the dampest, coldest place in the whole of England. But here he was, whistling the chorus of some bawdy ditty he’d picked up around campfires while soldiering in Spain as though he were actually glad to be back.

Abbie was the drawing card, of course, Abbie with her unruly fair hair, her intelligent gray eyes, and a smile that could melt a man at twenty paces. He would see her tonight at the Assembly Rooms, and he wondered which of the dashing ensembles she’d purchased in Paris she would choose to wear. Only Abbie could get away with what would be censured in any other lady in prim and proper Bath, not because she had the confidence to carry it off, but because everyone liked her. Abbie was everyone’s friend.

Friend. He grimaced. When he’d first met Abbie, he’d summed her up as a typical spinster, strait-laced, proper and with her mind firmly fixed on bagging the first eligible
gentleman who crossed her path. Naturally, he’d tried to keep her at a distance, and by the time he discovered that Abbie wasn’t anything like he’d imagined, he’d allowed her to set the boundaries of their odd relationship.

Not that trying to keep her at a distance had worked. Abbie had an inquiring mind and was fascinated by Roman antiquities. When she’d heard about his reputation as an authority on all things Roman, she’d begun her pursuit.