Kate Moore (5 page)

6

Evelina insisted on a full round of social engagements for their first day in town, including an appearance in the park at the fashionable hour. Talk had filled the day, idle malice masquerading as solicitude, and Susannah welcomed the clop of hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels that accompanied their progress through the park.

Somewhere between Lady Banks’s and Miss Elphinestone’s she had developed the tiniest bit of sympathy for Uncle John. Whatever Evelina heard in one drawing room she was sure to repeat in the next. Susannah only hoped her aunt had not made any indiscreet revelations about Juliet’s encounter with the young highwayman. Any coupling of Juliet’s name with Lord Warne’s in an
on dit
was sure to reach the ears of the Iron Lord. And all the gossips agreed he was a dangerous man to offend.

Still Susannah thought they had done well for their first day. If Juliet seemed incapable of forgetting the stranger, she would soon meet eligible gentlemen whose air and manner were certain to impress a girl making her come-out. This happy thought lasted until the driver brought the landau to a stop abreast of another carriage so that Evelina could speak with her particular friend, Mrs. Trentfield.

Susannah recognized her at once. Widowed now, Ann Trentfield had made her come-out with Susannah, and the sharp glance Susannah received from her seemed to say that she remembered something of that other season. Susannah lowered her gaze. She had thought her ruin so old and so insignificant a scandal that no one would recall it. Now she realized she would have to practice all the lessons in humility that she had learned in Uncle John’s house. She kept her hands folded in her lap and smiled with polite interest as Evelina repeated an anecdote about Byron she had told a score of times already.

But Susannah’s rebellious spirit soon stirred, and she turned away from the talk. The rain of the day before had passed, and the sky was blue with light clouds in high thin lines like the furrows of a new-planted field. The paths invited walking, and she vowed to escape to the park for an early morning ramble. For the moment, however, she must be content to sit quietly and let the wind blow her aunt’s voice away. The breeze tugged at her bonnet, and she touched the ribbons to check that they were securely tied.

Juliet, too, was ignoring her mother’s conversation, her eyes glancing at gentlemen of a certain height in the passing throng. “I don’t care what you think, Susannah,” she whispered. “We are in his debt, and I will acknowledge him wherever we meet.”

“In that case,” Susannah replied, “I hope he has the prudence not to appear in town.”

Juliet made a face. “Mama says I needn’t fear to speak to whom I please,” Juliet asserted. Unspoken was Juliet’s awareness of her own beauty. In a blue spencer over white muslin and with a bonnet trimmed in white roses, Miss Lacy looked as fresh and appealing as the March sky above them.

Susannah bit back an intemperate reply and lifted her gaze. Tall elms rose above them with puffs of pale green buds. For a moment, Susannah allowed herself to think of the cottage in Wincanton that would be hers if she could keep Juliet from imprudence. But that pleasant vision of freedom faded when Mrs. Trentfield’s tone suggested a confidence of a particularly sensitive nature was about to be revealed.

“Is it true, dear, that your daughter has met Warne’s
natural
son?” Ann asked. “A highwayman, is he?”

Susannah gasped. Evelina cast her a quick sheepish glance. They had not called upon Mrs. Trentfield earlier, but evidently she had heard the story, which meant that Evelina
had
been telling it. Dozens of people might have heard it by now, even the haughty Lord Warne himself. And, of course, the truth had been distorted already.

“Really,” Evelina protested, “we have no idea who the man is, though he claimed a connection with Warne. My daughter . . .”

At that moment a gust of wind hit them and lifted Juliet’s bonnet from her head, wafting it over the horses’ backs to the grass beyond and sending it tumbling across the green expanse. Instantly Juliet swung open the carriage door, let down the steps, and descended.

“Juliet,” Susannah cried, but her words were snatched away by the breeze as Juliet charged headlong in pursuit of the tumbling bonnet.

Susannah rose and stepped down to follow her cousin. As she touched the ground, she felt herself under scrutiny and looked up. A tall gentleman in a blue coat and buff inexpressibles was watching the little episode. The intensity of the gentleman’s gaze made her pause and check a defiant impulse to release her anger. His eyes were as cold as the wind.

***

At Maria Sefton’s urging, Warne joined the
beau monde
for the afternoon ritual of passing one another in the park. Lady Sefton assured him that the park was the place to impress young ladies with his interest or lack of it. And besides she had said, “Your figure shows to advantage on a horse, Warne.” She was teasing him, of course, but she knew the ways of the
ton
, and he would do well to heed her advice. At the Somerset ball he had realized how hard it was going to be to overcome the
ton’s
distrust of him. He wondered if he had the patience for it. He was used to spending his afternoons pushing himself to accomplish some necessary work for one of the businesses he and Bellaby ran, and he found this amble through the park as tedious as a minuet on horseback.

“That
was
Warne, was it not?” he heard one gentleman say to another as they passed.

He was relieved to encounter the Countess of Wilton with her husband. There could be no scandal in his greeting his friends together as a couple.

Lord Wilton introduced the topic of the Lavalette affair, and Warne agreed that the French were a damned unforgiving lot. He glanced at Margaret and found her watching him.

He had received a note from her about the delivery of roses with his card, and he had interviewed the florist. Apparently, a young gentleman had made the purchases and taken the flowers with him. The florist could not say whether the man was fair or dark, well heeled or shabby, but he did recall that the lad had a touch of a Scot accent. The fellow was not one of his father’s men then, but a hireling.

“You are the subject of the latest
on dit
, Warne,” Margaret told him.

His hands clenched, and his mount danced uneasily. He checked the animal. “With my search for a bride?” he asked.

“That, too,” said Margaret, a hint of laughter in her green eyes. Then she sobered. “There is a story going about that a highwayman held up two young ladies of fashion and left them with one of your cards. You know the message it bore. The speculation, of course, is that you have a natural son.”

Warne straightened, momentarily forgetting his surroundings. It was too like an exploit of his. He had held up his father’s mistress once, relieved her of a necklace his father had given her, and sent the bauble to his mother with his father’s compliments. Who but his father would remember and avenge that act? “Who’s telling this tale?” he asked.

“Lady Lacy,” said Margaret. “The blonde you startled at the Somerset ball.”

“Flows as steady as the Thames,” said Lord Wilton. He made a gesture with his hand to indicate a mouth opening and closing.

“Her daughter and niece met the man, who handed them your card,” Margaret added.

“What did he take from them?” he asked curtly.

“Nothing that I’ve heard of.”

“Who are they?” He had to know.

“The baron is a miser, I think, keeps to his estate, never comes to town. His lady delights in gossip. I can point her out.” Margaret lifted her chin and surveyed the park. “There, in the black landau.”

Warne turned to see an odd tableau—the fair but full beauty he remembered from the Somerset ball, frozen in mid-speech, a lovely younger version of the woman tumbling out of the carriage, and a slim woman in a dark brown cape, leaning out after her. The fair-haired girl, her golden curls shining in the afternoon sun, moved as if quite conscious of the pretty picture she made.

The woman in brown now descended from the carriage, as lightly as had the other, but with more dignity. She glanced at him briefly, as if aware of his scrutiny, and paused, catching his gaze on her. A defiant spark flashed in the dark eyes and was instantly veiled. Warne thought it a trick of habit. He had a moment to note the straight, slim figure in the brown cape. Then with a quick, purposeful stride the woman set off after the girl chasing the bonnet.

Warne was sure they had no connection with him, had never been part of his life, yet the fellow with the cards, the man who seemed to know Warne’s past, had given them his card. It made no sense, and it certainly was nothing his father would have planned. But they had met his thief and would know whether he was young or old, tall or short, fat or lean, well-bred or an oaf. So Warne must meet them.

***

Kirby leaned upon the cane he had borrowed from Draycot. He felt he had the hang of it now, and tapped along the path quite confidently. He had had another success. He had managed to purchase a fine new beaver on the strength of his father’s card, and he had come to the park to seek his father out and tip the new hat to him. For once Lord Warne was providing for the son he’d fathered and forgotten.

The only difficult moment in the whole scheme had come when the haberdasher, looking up from the card, had addressed Kirby as “my lord.” He had been obliged to drop one of his packages in order to conceal his surprise. He realized then that he had not been clear-headed about the long list of Warne’s titles. The entry in
Debrett’s
applied to his grandfather, and he had not considered that now that his father had inherited, Dovedale would be his son’s title, if that son were acknowledged.

It was that realization as much as anything that had drawn him to the park to look upon the
ton.
He had donned a gray wig and beard and now leaned upon a cane, but he wore the curly brimmed beaver he had purchased at a jaunty angle. He was or should be one of them, one of these idlers, at leisure to drive or stroll through the park, admiring each other in clothes they would soon change for their evening attire while lesser mortals sewed and pressed and fetched and cleaned to keep them in style.

He told himself he was not seeking Juliet Lacy. His embarrassing encounter with Mrs. Hayter had recalled him to his purpose. He had no business pursuing a girl no matter how fresh and lovely she seemed, no matter her courage and eagerness for life. He would fulfill his promise to his mother, and his own plans for his father’s humiliation, and leave London. Falling in love had no part in his plans. Still he found himself searching for that one face in the crowd, and when he found it, he could not help fixing his gaze there.

She, too, was looking at passing faces. He could see how little attention she gave to her companions. The woman in the brown cape must be her sensible cousin from the night before. And there was no mistaking the other woman. She could be none other than Juliet’s mother. He passed them once, then turned and doubled back, passing again, inches from Miss Lacy. Another turn and he was facing them once again, moving as slowly as he dared, prolonging the occasion. Then fortune favored him. The wind lifted Miss Lacy’s bonnet and sent it scudding across the grass. The young lady herself descended from the carriage with the same impulsive quickness he had seen the night before. Kirby was already in motion. The wind was blowing the bonnet his way, and he had only to step off the path a few paces and wait for the breeze to bring it to him. A playful gust dropped it within reach, and Kirby planted his cane upon the ribbons.

The girl came to a breathless halt before him. “My bonnet, please, sir,” she said, her eyes on the object in question.

“May I ask a
boon
of you then, Miss Lacy?” he answered.

Her head came up abruptly, and her startled eyes sought his.

“You?” She was studying him, trying to penetrate the wig and beard.

“At your service,” he said with a slight bow. He bent down to retrieve the bonnet.

“Why are you are in disguise?” she asked. “Are you in danger?”

He nodded, holding out the bonnet.

“Then you can’t come to call?”

He shook his head. Speaking slowly, he told her, “You must not let anyone know you’ve seen me in London.”

“Are you really Lord Warne’s son?”

“I must go, Miss Lacy. Your cousin approaches. Tell no one we met here.”

She looked so downcast at this ending of their conversation that he added, “Do you ever go to Lackington’s?”

“No.”

He turned away.

“But I will,” she called, and the wind carried her voice to him.

When he was safely hidden in the crowd again, he turned back to see her mother’s footman helping her into the carriage. Beyond her on horseback, studying the scene, was his father. At the sight, Kirby’s hand did shake upon his cane, as if he were indeed the palsied old man he’d pretended to be. His father, titled, wealthy, and free, could court any young lady in London, and it was plain Miss Lacy was here for the season.

7

Susannah wore her lace cap to Lady Shalford’s ball, and when their hostess greeted them with a cold, tight smile, Evelina frowned. On the threshold of the ballroom she paused to whisper, “It’s your cap, Susannah. I begged you not to wear such an article to a ball. You have no sense of fashion, dear.”

Susannah’s fingers clenched around her fan. Below them, the
ton
, formidable in its careless elegance, glittered and shimmered in the radiance of a thousand candles. How had she dared to come among them again? Beside her Juliet let out her breath in an exclamation of unabashed delight.

“There’s Esther,” said Evelina. “Come girls.” She led them into the crowd, apparently unconcerned by the curious stares that followed them.

Susannah and Juliet trailed after her, Juliet’s eyes searching the crowd. “Do you think he’s here?”

Susannah shook her head. “It’s doubtful,” she said mildly. “Young men have endless resources for entertainment in town, and you can hardly expect your highwayman to attend anything so tame as a ball.”

“He must be here,” Juliet insisted.

“Not after you’ve made him notorious with your story of meeting him,” Susannah pointed out.

At that, Juliet stopped glancing about. She looked a bit stung, but recovered at once. “I hardly told anyone, just Mama and Mrs. Garthe, and besides he could come . . . in disguise,” she said, resuming her search.

Susannah decided the tale of their encounter with the highwayman must be in wide circulation. No one gave them the cut direct, but no one greeted them either. The eyes of the gentlemen did tend to linger on Juliet, a white satin gown on her striking form, a crown of white roses in her golden hair.

Esther Pemford, Evelina’s sister, met them before they had advanced very far into the room. Tall, elegant, Titian-haired, with a dark, haughty gaze, she planted herself squarely in their path.

“Evelina, dear,” said Mrs. Pemford. “You’ve done it this time.” She nodded to Susannah and shook her head, looking at Juliet. “And such a pretty child.”

“Done what?” asked Evelina, her gloved fingers making delicate adjustments to the curls at the side of her face.

“Why chattered too much, of course.”

Evelina opened her mouth to protest, but the other woman cut her off with a snap of her fan.

“It’s no use, Evie. Look about you. By now everyone’s heard that your lovely daughter received Warne’s card from a highwayman. What were you thinking to allow such a tale to get about?”

“What’s the harm in it? Surely my Juliet did no wrong.”

“No? She’s landed in the middle of a bumble broth. Whoever this fellow with the card was, he can’t be a friend of Warne’s. Evie, you do not want an enemy in Warne. And, as you can see, nor does anyone else.”

“But what are we to do? The tale’s out.”

“Put a bold front on it. Stick to the family. Cousin Clara is here. She can introduce the girl to Brentwood. Everyone else will wait to see what Warne does, I expect.”

“Warne comes here tonight?” Evelina’s gaze again swept the ballroom.

“Don’t be a goose, Evie. Of course he does, he’s looking for a wife, isn’t he? Not that it will be easy for him with his reputation. Even if Maria Sefton is sponsoring him.”

“Maria Sefton?” asked Evelina faintly. “I was counting on her for vouchers.”

“The more fool, you, Evie. Though I think Maria will have better luck with Warne than she’s had with Byron,” she added.

“Is Lord Byron here?” asked Juliet.

“I should hope not,” said Mrs. Pemford, giving Juliet a quelling glance. “The state that man’s affairs are in. Come, ladies.”

She led them to a diminutive brunette with a loud ready laugh and constant toothy grin. Cousin Clara dismissed their difficulty with the reflection that, “No one’s above the taint of gossip. Lord, not even Wellington, and the entire country’s in his debt.”

Having made this assurance, Cousin Clara promptly abandoned them to pursue a flirtation of her own, and for several sets, Juliet and Susannah were obliged to stand by while other girls danced, and Evelina pointed out her particular friends, lamenting their inattention to her plight.

Juliet complained of the heat and glitter, the din, and the warm confusion of powerful scents. Her shoulders sagged, and her smile faded.

Susannah said what she could to keep Juliet’s spirits up, but she, too, found watching the dancing unbearable. The only music in Uncle John’s house had been Juliet’s earnest renderings of familiar ballads on the pianoforte, nothing to stir the spirit or urge the feet to move. How had Susannah imagined she could endure a ball? She who had always been complimented on her dancing. Even her seducer had praised her light feet and easy movement, but for ten years her steps had been no more than tiny, even stitches across a tight frame of duty and penance. Only her walks had freed her to move unconstrainedly, and she had not walked for days.

As a third set formed, Juliet turned to Susannah. “He’s not here, and I am never to meet anyone. This is too humiliating. I want to go home.”

Just then the flirtatious Clara found a moment to present them to Lord Brentwood, who would take them in to supper. A viscount in his early thirties, Brentwood was one of the three men Uncle John considered most eligible for Juliet’s hand. Brentwood was a handsome, solid-looking gentleman, a little ponderous in his speech, and undoubtedly aware of the attractions of his rank and purse.

He seemed indifferent to the undercurrents of gossip and doubt swirling about them. He smiled at Juliet at once and pronounced what he apparently considered must be her sentiments. “Miss Lacy, I daresay you find yourself impressed with your first London ball. Don’t find such society in Berkshire, do you?” He looked about the ballroom as if admiring his own splendid domain.

“There are not so many people at a country ball, to be sure, my lord,” Juliet answered.

“No, of course not,” his lordship replied. He went on to explain in considerable detail the distribution of the population as reported in the most recent census. His hands moved expressively as he talked, and he gave the least question a full answer.

Indeed, at the supper interval, Lord Brentwood only interrupted his population treatise just long enough to offer his arm to Evelina. His gaze remained on Juliet. “Daresay there’s five hundred in this room alone. Shalford always draws a crush. French cook, you know. Prinny . . .” He paused to let the name sink in. “. . . tried to hire the man away. Couldn’t.”

They advanced with the crowd in little shuffling steps that reminded Susannah of sheep passing through a narrow gate. The press squeezed them into another long high-ceilinged room, where a generous buffet drew most of the guests. Lord Brentwood steered them toward a cluster of little tables and gilt-edged chairs.

“Does a cook make such a difference at a ball?” Juliet asked Brentwood as he drew out one of the elegant little chairs to seat Evelina.

It was then that the gentleman from the park entered the supper room. Susannah felt the change in mood immediately and turned. He seemed to be looking straight at her, and then his gaze shifted to Juliet. Around them a hundred conversations hushed, suspended by the talkers’ awareness that some curious drama was about to be played out before their eyes, and Susannah understood that the gentleman must be Lord Warne.

***

Warne was not such a stranger to the ballrooms of the
ton
that he did not recognize the avid if veiled attention his arrival received.

Maria Sefton came up to him at once and whispered in his ear, “You’ve heard, of course.”

He nodded.

“Miss Lacy has had a long night, I fear.”

“Has she?” He offered his arm to his friend.

“No one wants to incur your displeasure, Warne.”

He laughed a short, harsh laugh. “Would that that were a compliment.”

His sister’s friends were willing enough to welcome him back into society, but for the rest he could imagine their doubts about the Iron Lord.

“They fear you Warne. It’s as simple as that. Now, would you care to meet the young lady? You could save her from social ruin and prove that you do not consume young maidens for breakfast.” Maria raised one delicate brow.

He laughed. It would suit his purpose to be presented to Miss Lacy. He had given considerable thought to the rumor he’d heard in the park, but try as he might, he could not think of any connection between this green girl and himself. She must have been a mere babe when he began his feud with his father. Her family was unknown to his, he was sure, and even such property as he had in Berkshire was in Wincanton and not near her father’s seat at Pangbourne. He’d checked on that. Still there must be some connection, or else he did not understand the card thief at all.

The difficulty was to discover the connection. He could ask the girl about her adventure, but that would be to acknowledge his keen interest in the affair, and put him in a position of dependence upon her honesty and willingness to tell him about the event. She might very well refuse. It seemed a wiser course to ignore the rumors, make the girl’s acquaintance, and piece together the details of her adventure from such questions as everyone always asked everyone else about travel.

He studied her as they made their way across the room. Pretty and conscious of it, she appeared to be enduring Brentwood’s attentions with some grace. His gaze moved inevitably to her companion, sitting a little apart, as austere as before, her eyes downcast, her hands resting in her lap, folded around a fan. He thought her as taut as a bow, and he did not remember seeing a cap like that since his last visit to his sister in Bath.