How I Met My Countess (17 page)

Elinor laughed. “I daresay he’d wheeze through his duty. Ever so distracting, wouldn’t you think?”

They all laughed. “Find another, Lucy,” Minerva urged. “Someone a bit more lofty. Someone with a bit of Town dash to them.”

They both looked at her. “I like a man with some polish to him,” she returned unapologetically.

Thumbing through again, Lucy stopped on a random page, hoping the fellow had enough “dash” for Minerva.

Instead, much to her shock, she looked down at a name she knew all too well.

Justin Grey, the Earl of Clifton.

Lucy snapped the book shut. “This is utter folly.”

“No, no!” Elinor said, reaching over and snatching the book out of her hands. “That was the Earl of Clifton. Wasn’t he the fellow who came around and accosted you, Minerva?”

“Impertinent fellow,” she recalled. “And no dash.”

“I suppose not,” Elinor replied. “Still, he is quite handsome. Such dark hair, and those eyes! So very piercing.” She paged through the journal until she got to his entry and began to read aloud:

“So have most of the nobles in Town,” Minerva remarked with a sniff, “but that hardly moves me to believe they can be a good lover.”

“No, no, listen to this,” Elinor said.

Lucy didn’t need to listen; she closed her eyes and saw him. Saw that first day she’d met him, all proper and stiff. When he’d been about to kiss her on the lane, his eyes so dark and mysterious. The night he’d laid her in his bed and made love to her …

Meanwhile, Elinor continued to read:

“He was wounded?” Minerva said. “He looked quite sound when he was here.”

“I believe his wounds are more of the heart,” Lucy said. “The difficulties he faced, the perils he overcame.”

Her audience nodded solemnly.

“Did he mention what he was seeking?” Lucy asked, trying to sound nonchalant. When both of them looked quizzically at her, she shrugged. “I saw him coming down the steps. Whatever impertinence he displayed, Minerva, it appeared you sent him packing quite efficiently.”

“Some nonsense about his brother. His
natural
brother. And how I might know him.” Minerva shook her head.

“Malcolm,” Lucy said aloud, not meaning to.

“Pardon?” Minerva said.

“His brother’s name was Malcolm. And he served as well. He was killed on a beach near Hastings. The local militia mistook him for a smuggler and shot him.” Lucy glanced away.

“Oh, the poor man,” Minerva said. “What a terrible tragedy.”

More than you can guess
, Lucy would have told her.

Elinor tipped her head and studied Lucy. “Did you know him? This Malcolm, and Lord Clifton?”

Glancing up at her two new comrades-in-arms, Lucy sensed that tonight they had forged a real bond, one that went beyond the claret and Lord Lewis. They were together in their plight, and she realized just how much she had missed Mariana and the friendship they had shared.

“Yes, I knew them both.”

Minerva wasn’t just regal; she was also as smart as a whip, and Lucy watched her come to her conclusions. “He was looking for you!”

Lucy held her breath, for Minerva wasn’t done. Her expression slowly went from amazement to outright shock, even as she turned her gaze toward the ceiling and then back at Lucy. “Dear heavens above. Mickey.”

The next morning Lucy went down to breakfast feeling no end of trepidation. Whatever had she been thinking, telling Elinor and Minerva about Clifton and Mickey, and why the earl could not discover the boy’s existence?

Too much claret and not enough common sense
, she told herself. She’d spilled her secrets like the worst sort of turncoat agent.

Her father would have been appalled at her behavior.

But in the end, Minerva and Elinor had both agreed to her reasoning and, instead of being dismayed over her revelation, had hugged her close— well, Elinor had—and promised to help her.

We will endeavor to help each other
, Minerva had insisted as they had teetered tipsily off to bed.

But Lucy had to wonder if these sentiments would hold true in the cold light of day.

Not that their servants had been informed of the detente that had been forged the night before. Lucy paused on the stairs as the beginnings of an argument between Minerva’s abigail and Elinor’s maid began in one of their rooms. Something over using the iron.

And down further inside the house Clapp’s voice was rising in dismay over something, while even Mr. Otter—calm, sensible Mr. Otter—was having words with the housekeeper, Mrs. Hutchinson, at the foot of the stairs.

“A sensible diet for a young man, madame,” he was saying, “does not include a double ration of bacon and eggs. You’ll make him gluttonous and a laggard with such fare. Cooked oats and weak tea will serve him much better.”

“ ’E’s not a horse, Mr. Otter,” she was arguing back. “ ’E’s a growing lad with the appetite to match. And I’ll tell you right now to mind your p’s and q’s around me kitchen, unless you want to fancy yourself eating your last supper.”

Oh, gracious heavens! And this was only the first morning of their enforced housing. What would it be like by the end of the week?

Just then the bell over the door jangled, and Lucy looked around for Mr. Mudgett to answer it. But their batman-cum-butler was nowhere about.

And it didn’t appear that either Mr. Otter or Mrs. Hutchinson were inclined to answer it as the bell tolled again, this time with a bit more urgency.

Lucy shot a plaintive glance at their housekeeper and cook, but Mrs. Hutchinson was busy wiping her hands on her apron and apparently of the entire business.

“I won’t be answering that,” she declared. “Probably another of those fancy toffs who’ve been showing up since dawn. Tired of the lot of them, I am. This house has more flowers than a funeral, and it smells like one as well.”

It was only then that Lucy noticed the bouquets, piles of them, stacked on every available space— the receiving table, the window seat; even a cubby designed for bric-a-brac was now stuffed with posies.

Why, every hothouse in London appeared to have been raided.

“My heavens!” Lucy exclaimed. “Who are they all for?”

“Well, take your pick, m’lady,” Mrs. Hutchinson said. “They are all to be delivered to ‘Lady Standon.’ ” She snorted and shook her head. “Don’t think one of those witless fellows cares which of you gets them. They’ve just got marriage on their minds.”

“Oh, this is utter foolishness!” Lucy gasped. “Why ever would they think—” Her question came to a halt as the bell rang again.

“Don’t look at me!” Mrs. Hutchinson declared. “Quite worn down to my toes what with that fool bell and all the demands I’ve had to listen to this morning.” She paused and glanced over at Mr. Otter with a meaningful arch of her brows. “ ’Sides, I’ve got apple tarts and custards to bake for the young ’un.” And with that shot fired, she turned heel and marched toward the rear of the house and her kitchen domain.

This sent Mr. Otter into another volley of sputtered complaints. “My good woman, do you mean to fatten the child for roasting?” He scurried after her, a litany of acceptable fare issuing forth.

She supposed if it was Minerva or Elinor standing here, the poor soul on the other side of the door would just have to continue pulling the bell cord in vain, but luckily for whoever it was, she hadn’t their aristocratic sensibilities.

After all, she’d answered her father’s door often enough while growing up in Hampstead. Delighted in discovering whatever the other side held.

Always hoping it was him returning to claim her heart, just as he’d promised …

The bell jarred her out of that musing, and she quickly wove her way through several large arrangements of blossoms and greenery, flipping the latch aside and opening the door.

Immediately she found a bounty of roses stuffed toward her.

“These are for Lady Standon!” an imperious voice announced.

Another bouquet followed, hyacinths by the heady fragrance, edging the roses aside slightly. “Why ever do you think the fair Lady Standon would take your poor roses, my good man!” another equally lofty voice added.

Lucy did her best to brush them aside so she could see these would-be swains, but another person coming up from behind did it for her.

“Get out of my way,” an elderly lady’s voice announced. “Gracious heavens, is that you, Percy Harmond?” A cane came between the two men, and a sharp rap on both their elbows had them moving aside, the bouquets going up into the air and falling in a shower of lost petals and blossoms.

Cane in hand, the regal old woman, with a wrinkled face and sparkling blue eyes beneath her gleamingly starched cap and bonnet, eyed both gentlemen as if she couldn’t decide which one to knock about next.

Her sharp gaze fell on the unfortunate Percy Harmond. “Good God, man, you’ve gotten as stout as your Uncle Henry! And probably just as much in debt. Whatever are you thinking? Calling on my niece? Be gone! You as well, Lord George! Why, you look quite ill in that color of waistcoat. Whatever was your tailor thinking? No! No! Don’t even tell me it was your idea, for I will think you more of a nitwit than I already do. Nuisances, both of you. Now be gone.”

During the course of this berating speech, she’d managed to wedge herself between them on the narrow front steps and then chase them down with her waving cane and round of pointed, and well-informed, insults.

Having sent them scattering like bill collectors faced with a brace of pistols, she then stalked up and past Lucy. “Well, don’t just stand there gawking, girl, announce me!”

It was then that Lucy noticed the other lady coming up the steps. “Lady Charles!” she said, surprised to see her mother-in-law. While most of the Sterlings held her in contempt, she’d always found a fond welcome from Archie’s mother.

“Announce me, you foolish girl!” the other lady repeated, as Lucy closed the door and turned around.

“I fear I don’t know who you are.” She glanced over at Lady Charles for help, but all she looked was bemused.

“Why, I’m Lady Standon’s aunt, you wretched girl,” the little whirlwind announced. “Her Aunt Bedelia. Now move along before I see you sent packing as well.” She waved her cane to punctuate her point.

“Of course, madam,” Lucy said, a bit taken aback. Over the lady’s shoulder she spied Lady Charles smiling, as if Bedelia’s antics were part and parcel of being in her company. “I believe your niece is taking breakfast.”

Lucy led the way into the dining room, but before she could manage a single word, Elinor spied her in the doorway and said, “Oh, there you are! Did you take it?”

“Did I take what?”

“What she is asking is,” Minerva said, glancing up from her plate of dry toast and a single slice of thin ham, “was it you who took the duchess’s journal?”

“Aha!” Aunt Bedelia sputtered, coming forward and shaking her cane right under Lucy’s nose. “Stealing as well as lollygagging about your duties.” The lady peered a little closer at her. “Probably one of Lucy Sterling’s ragtag company of misbegotten servants, is my guess.”

“Aunt!” Minerva said faintly, rising from her chair, her face paling as if she’d just seen a ghost. “However did you—”

Aunt Bedelia, temporarily forgetting Lucy, now rounded on her niece. “Find you? Well, through no lack of trouble, I might say.” She paused and glanced over at Lucy. “Don’t you have duties to attend to? Or shall I summon that gadfly Lady Standon—Rosebel, whatever were you thinking, allowing Archie to marry that creature’s daughter? Not that men ever consider future expectations when they marry, now do they?” She paused and glanced around the room. “Now where was I? Ah yes, go fetch Lucy Sterling this very moment so I can explain to that ill-bred upstart the importance of keeping respectable servants.”

“Aunt Bedelia,” Minerva said in a strained voice, her hands gripping at the table edge for support, “that is Lucy Sterling.”

Aunt Bedelia didn’t even flinch. Instead she sent a withering gaze over at Lucy. “Good heavens! Answering the door?! You are as queer as they say, I will avow that. Now stand up straight, girl.” The cane snaked out and tapped Lucy on one side and then the other, until she was standing at attention. “However is anyone to know you are a marchioness if you don’t use proper posture. I should know, I was a marchioness—twice!”

* * *

Aunt Bedelia, as it turned out, had been married five times. Two marquesses, an earl, a baron and, most recently, a viscount. Viscount Chudley, to be exact.

Marriage was a subject in which she was well versed, and it was marriage she and Lady Charles had come to discuss.

“I cannot help but feel some responsibility for this situation,” Lady Charles said after they settled into the receiving room.

“However could you think it is your fault?” Minerva asked, and Lucy had no doubt she had wanted to finish that sentence with a more pointed accusation.
“No, my lady, the fault is hardly yours, but that of your meddlesome daughter-in-law.”

Lady Charles waved her off. “I should have done more to see the three of you reconciled, for—and please do not be offended—I have always thought you could be good friends.”

The three of them shared a glance, then began to laugh.

“Whatever is so funny?” Aunt Bedelia demanded. “I cannot see that your circumstances are amusing in the least!”

“It is just, dear Aunt Bedelia,” Minerva told her, “before last night I would have found Lady Charles’s suggestion of friendship utterly ridiculous.”

Lady Charles glanced around the room, her gaze falling on the empty bottles of claret. “I see you have cleared the air amongst yourselves.”

Aunt Bedelia noticed as well. “Got tippled, did you?”

Elinor raised her hand to her brow. “Not quite so loud, my lady.”

“Didn’t save any for us,” the old lady huffed. “Just as well, we have much to discuss, including your marriages.”

“My lady, we have no intention of getting married,” Lucy told her. The other two nodded in agreement.

“Not get married! Bah!” Aunt Bedelia shot back. “Of course you must marry.”

“Truly, we do not seek husbands,” Minerva told her. “We mean to stand together against this injustice.”

“Utter nonsense!” the lady said.

“We have had our marriages, my lady,” Elinor pointed out. “And do not intend to pursue it again.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you hadn’t made a shambles of your first go round,” Bedelia declared. “I had five husbands, and I know a fair sight more about men than any of you.”

“I would point out that we had no choice in our husbands. Circumstances as they were,” Minerva said delicately.

“But you do now,” Lady Charles reminded them. “And I agree with Bedelia—marriage with the right man is quite agreeable. A joy, really.”

Lucy thought for a moment of the passion she’d known that one night with Clifton, and she had always wondered if it had been the illicit nature of their affair that had made it so grand.

For her marriage bed with Archie had borne no resemblance to that night.

Lady Charles wasn’t done making her case. “It seems a shame that you should spend your lives in this house just to spite the London gossips and the rather unorthodox plans of one marriage-mad duchess.”

Minerva groaned. “It’s all over Town, isn’t it?”

“One look at the foyer should tell you that,” Lucy pointed out.

“And are they making wagers?” Elinor asked, hand still on her brow.

“Filled two pages in the book at White’s last night according to Chudley,” Bedelia advised. “That is why we are here. I went to Rosebel immediately when I heard the news. And we agree there is only one solution: the three of you marry and marry well.” Bedelia’s eyes narrowed. “The best revenge is always a splendid match.”

The three friends exchanged wary glances.

“Mind what I say,” Bedelia told them. “By afternoon, every rake, buck and fortune hunter in town will have come calling.”

Lady Charles nodded. “As well as every matron with a marriageable daughter, if only to see what she is up against.”

“So you must be ready,” Aunt Bedelia said. “Now come along, fetch your bonnets and cloaks, we have much to do to prepare you.”

“Prepare?” Elinor said faintly. “I don’t remember agreeing to any of this.”

Bedelia laughed. “Of course you didn’t. But you will. And best of all, this will be your choice. No one will force you to marry a man you don’t love. That is the joy of a second marriage—it is a matter of your own making.”

“Or your third, fourth and perhaps fifth one as well,” Lady Charles teased.

“And good choices they were,” Bedelia paused, tugging at her gloves. “But you must know what sort you want. Minerva, tell me of the man you would like to marry.”

“I don’t know, that is to say, I haven’t considered—”

“Good God, girl, you’ve been a widow for nearly ten years, tell me what sort of man you fancy!”

Minerva straightened. “A moral and upright one.”

“Good luck there,” Bedelia muttered before she turned to Elinor. “And you?”

“A duke,” Elinor said. “I will not marry anyone of lesser rank.”

“They are mostly mad,” Bedelia advised. “But if you insist.” She turned to Lucy. “And you?”

“Any man will do,” Lucy lied.

Lady Chudley took a step back and stared at her. “Gracious heavens above, Lady Standon! We need to work on your standards. Believe me, any man will not do.”

As he walked down Bond Street for his assignation with his uncle, Clifton weighed all the information he and Jack had been able to gather the previous night. He was drawing closer to discovering the connection between Lucy and Malcolm, but now he needed just one more thing before he could solve the mystery.