Emily Hendrickson (17 page)

Lord Osman gave her a fond smile. “It is good to see you looking amused again.”

“Indeed so,” Miss Knight added. Binky had escaped from her room and crept into the drawing room on silent paws. He apparently recognized Dru, for he snarled at her before going on to plead with his mistress to pick him up.

Dru supposed the dog would never forgive her for ending his bid for freedom. When she thought of all that occurred that dreadful day, she rather hoped the little dog would succeed in his next attempt.

Miss Knight shot her a suspicious look, and Dru wondered if her thoughts were visible.

“I shall be Lady Fallacy? How quaint,” Lady Felicia cried gaily. “It looks as though I have a fine role,” she concluded with obvious satisfaction as she paged through the play.

“Ives, you read Sir Artifice and Vane, you will be Lord Humburg.” Adrian handed out scripts.

“I say, that sounds rather disagreeable,” Gregory Vane declared with a laugh.

“It is no worse than being called Artifice!” Lord Ives insisted.

“Well, it is a comedy and titled
Delusion.
It isn’t surprising that the names reflect that,” Lord Brentford pointed out in a reasonable manner.

Dru put up a hand to cover the grin that longed to burst forth into laughter. As she touched her lips, her gaze chanced to meet that of Lord Brentford’s—Adrian’s. She hoped no one else observed the warm look he cast her. The fat would be in the fire for certain.

She thought one person did notice, but as she said nothing, Dru ceased to worry. Lady Brentford was not one to say anything that might embarrass a person, unlike Miss Knight or Lady Felicia.

When they all went up to their respective rooms later, Dru heard Harry Metcalf grumbling about not having a part to read. She would gladly have given him hers, had it not been a female part. She smiled, a feline sort of smile, for while Lady Felicia appeared to have the starring role, it was Dru that captured the heart of Lord Brentford in the role of Lord Grasp. How very, very nice.

With that silly thought, Dru changed into her nightdress and slipped between sheets that had been warmed against the damp of a rainy day. The embers of the fire that had heated her room cast a comforting glow over the interior. Within minutes she had drifted to sleep.

* * * *

The following morning found it pouring rain outside Dru’s window when Mary opened her draperies.

“A dreary day, miss.”

“Perfect for reading a play, however. The men will not be tempted to wander off to do some manly sport.”

“I heard Mr. Metcalf insisting that one of the men join in a game of billiards.”

“None of them have bothered you, have they?” Dru wouldn’t have put it past Harry Metcalf to attempt to seduce Mary, for she was a taking little slip of a girl. Big brown eyes surveyed the world with such assurance.

“No, miss. Mrs. Simpson gave me a long pin, such as might be used in a hat.” She patted her bodice. “I keep it handy at all times. No man is going to persuade me between his sheets without a wedding!”

Dru nodded in relief. “Good. We will likely read the play this evening. If you like, you may sit in the back of the drawing room. I am certain the other maids would enjoy the play as well, for it is a comedy.”

“Thank you!” Mary replied with surprise. “I know they all would, maybe the footmen, and Mrs. Simpson and Cook?”

“Goodness, we shall have quite an audience.” It served to put Dru on her mettle. She tried to memorize the lines so not to be confused if someone forgot or something. She didn’t trust Lady Felicia. She was not above trying to add to her lines to make her character more important. The only thing she couldn’t do is change the ending of the play.

The practice went well, if one ignored Lydia’s and Belinda’s giggles, although they chimed in with their own lines perfectly on time. That they were amused might distract from their parts, for they were supposed to be serious. Dru had the feeling that they would sober up that evening when they came to read before the assembled parents and other lords and ladies.

Lady Felicia drifted over to survey’s Dru’s gown, a simple affair of blue India mull with pretty cream ribands tied in front.

“I must say I am surprised at your gowns. How is it that someone in the country can dress so
au courant!”

“I know this will surprise you, but the post delivers magazines from London to our village. Amazing, is it not?” Dru smiled, but her eyes cautioned.

“Oh.” Blinking at Dru’s mild answer, her ladyship wandered off, as though in search of someone more unwary.

If she only knew, Dru mused. Her little darts often found an unguarded spot in Dru’s heart, although she was careful not to let that lady know what hits she scored. But Lady Felicia did not have to proclaim Dru’s background. It was known she was a simple country girl.

“I propose a run-through from start to finish.” Lord Brentford waved his script in the air, motioning the various characters to take their places.

Out in the hallway Dru heard Lord Osman and Sir Bertram chatting with Harry Metcalf regarding a game of billiards. It was a relief to learn he was occupied. What a pity the pay didn’t have more parts.

They did remarkably well, with only Lady Felicia muffing her lines a few times. Lord Brentford was charming and patient with her.

Dru studied the rug at her feet. Of course he would have patience with the woman his mother wanted him to marry. The wondrous kiss he had given Dru had been propinquity, nothing more. Why, he probably kissed every lady he could! She thought back to her original dislike for the man. He had ignored his dear mother before charging to Brentford Court to insist the party be canceled. Then, while he had reluctantly allowed that to go forth, he had planned to send Dru packing. Perhaps in the back of his mind, he still harbored a plan to eliminate her? Compel her to flee because of his attentions? She didn’t like to think of his nurturing a scheme; it seemed beneath him. Yet, what did she really know of him?

She did not want to think it of him, indeed, she wished she could declare him her hero, just as in the play. But real life wasn’t a theatrical production.

“If you are ready to join us, Miss Herbert?” His deep rich tones cut across her musings.

Dru’s head shot up; her startled eyes met Lord Brentford’s cool gaze with consternation. He had not spoken to her like that since they first met. So—that was the way it was to be? Perhaps her musings were not so far off the mark after all?

“Indeed, my lord. I shall endeavor to pay closer attention. So sorry.” She flashed a look of antipathy in his direction. So he thought he could toy with her affections, did he? He would find her as elusive as an eel from now on. She read her lines with perfect intonation and coy sweetness when the end neared, and she was to fall into his arms—according to the

play-She edged away from him, not wishing to be near him when the conclusion was reached.

“Well-done, all of you.” Lord Brentford nodded approval toward most of them, but Dru thought he deliberately did not look her way.

“Miss Herbert seems a bit absent,” Lady Felicia said, her sugary tones falling clearly into the silence of the room. “Do you have the headache, my dear? Try a lavender-soaked cloth on your forehead. I always find it helpful.”

“No, I am fine, my lady. Merely a slight problem that intruded.” Dru slipped from the room while Lord Brentford was otherwise occupied with Lady Felicia on a question of one of her lines.

Perhaps a lavender cloth might help, after all. A headache seemed to be creeping up on her, in spite of her denial. She entered her bedroom in hopes of a retreat. “Mary, please find me the lavender oil.”

Mary closed the draperies in Dru’s room, then found the bottle of lavender oil.

Dru rubbed some of the oil on her forehead before she stretched out on her bed. Within a few minutes she could feel the lavender’s beneficial effects.

Half an hour later she woke from a light doze in a much better frame of mind and without a trace of her headache. A glance at the clock warned her to dress for dinner and the ordeal ahead of her.

A rap on her door brought her from her dressing table.

Lady Brentford came in, a flurry of pretty draperies about her trim form. “How are you, my dear? Mary said you had the headache.”

“I did as Lady Felicia suggested and put some lavender oil on my forehead. It was a splendid suggestion, for I am far better now.”

“Good. I sent invitations to the Swithins and the Percys to join us for dinner and the evening. I depend on you to assist Mrs. Simpson, should she require help.”

“Naturally I will. And may I say how pleased I am to see you looking so animated? Dare I wonder if a certain lord has put that twinkle back into your eyes?” Dru gave her employer a fond look, for she was indeed sparkling.

“How did you guess? Indeed, Lord Osman has me feeling like a girl again. I believe I shall marry him. I would rather be a Viscountess Osman than a Dowager Marchioness.”

“You believe your son is to marry soon?” Dru’s heart developed a sudden chill.

Her ladyship beamed a smile. “I believe so. He shows all the earmarks of a man in love.”

Well, Dru thought it likely, given his extraordinary patience with Lady Felicia. He must indeed love her if he was willing to endure her flirting with other men.

Pink-and-white loveliness couldn’t overcome everything.

“You feel well enough to oversee dinner and the reading of the play this evening?”

“Your son is directing the play, and I can cope with reading my few lines. I trust it will amuse your guests,” Dru concluded with a smile at the lady who had been so very good to her. “I shall miss you dreadfully when I am gone.” The words slipped out before she realized she said them rather than thought them. She was too outspoken at the wrong moments!

“I was unaware you intended to leave us. When, may I ask, do you plan to go?” Her ladyship suddenly grew aloof.

“I shall remain as long as you have need of me. But know that your son disapproves of my being here and may find a way to . . .” Dru hesitated to say more.

“Send you packing?” The lady sniffed with seeming amusement. “I doubt it. Carry on with him, my dear. I do.”

Dru gave her words dubious consideration.

“Come with me. Let us look over the dining room. I believe we need more candles—although soft candlelight is kind to a lady, we should like to see what we eat!”

Laughing as no doubt intended, Dru walked to the main floor at her ladyship’s side and into the dining room, where a footman inserted beeswax candles as needed.

Twenty chairs sat precisely at the table, now extended to the required length. A more elaborate epergne sat at the center with four elegant branches of candelabrum spaced the length. The rat-tail silver flatware gleamed with polishing, and nothing could have been more refined than the Wedgwood china with the Brentford crest centered on each plate or the delicate crystal finger bowls and glasses at each setting. Fine mustard pots were spaced between settings, with pepper pots and glass-lined salt dishes next to them.

“I think all is in readiness,” Dru said after inspecting the epergne.

“Fine—let us assemble with the others now.”

* * * *

Dinner was jovial. The Swithins and the Percys were happy additions to the party. Mrs. Simpson had organized the serving to perfection. Dru had not been required to help at all, save for placing the fruits on the epergne.

Avoiding Lord Brentford, Dru slipped in and out like the eel she had thought of earlier. If his glances in her direction seemed frustrated, she marked it to his annoyance with her.

The play was an enormous hit with everyone. The servants watched from the corridor and standing in the corners of the drawing room, while Lady Brentford and her friends, plus Harry Metcalf, observed the players from the comfort of their chairs and sofas.

“Kind sir,” Dru read in ringing accents to Lord Brentford, “I will wed you and happily. ‘Tis a comfort the misunderstanding and delusion is cleared at last.”

She took her bow with the others, then glided from the room to supervise the serving of a light dessert to those present.

She was briskly marching toward the kitchen when Lord Brentford stepped in her path. She halted, giving him a wary look.

“Why do you disappear every time I want to speak with you?” He truly sounded put out.

“I am merely doing what I am paid to do. Lord Brentford.” Her voice was stiff, her manner even stiffer.

“I thought we had gone beyond that. I see I am wrong.”

“Adrian,” Lady Felicia called, “do come and settle a dispute.”

He gave Dru a searching look, then spun on his heel and left her alone.

Chapter Eleven

The rain continued the next day. It wasn’t a hard rain, but it was a persistent one, almost a mizzle.

Dru cast a discouraged look out of her window. Well, she was in the mood for rain. Actually, a deluge such as Noah faced would have been welcome. She could just step into a boat and float away!

Of course, running away never solved problems. She had promised Lady Brentford that she would remain as long as she was needed. That day had not yet arrived. At least, her ladyship had said nothing. What her son might do or say was something else.

Mary slipped into the room, holding something behind her, a look of expectation on her face. “This be for you, miss. And you’ll be that surprised.” She whipped the item from behind her to reveal the lilac sprigged gown, just as fresh and pretty as the day it was made.

“Mary! What a wonderful surprise! My dress—and it looks so fine. I shall wear it today, for I need cheering.”

But when she went to slip it over her head, she noticed that the tear Binky made was not mended, it was entirely gone. A careful inspection caught several other tiny differences. “This is not the same dress, is it?”

“I never thought you would notice, really I didn’t.”

“What happened to the original?” Dru sank back on the edge of her bed, still holding the sprigged muslin in her arms.

“Well, Mrs. Simpson did her best, but the print faded ‘most completely away and the tears were hard to mend. Lord Brentford said to have the dress copied, so she did. Had it sewn by the local seamstress. I thought she did fine.”