Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (4 page)

A week later, he was not sure how it had all come about, but somehow Lord Penworth was under the impression that he was indulging his wife by agreeing to this trip. Pip was under the impression that he was going along to protect his mother and sister. Norrie did not seem to care how or why the trip had been proposed. She was completely unable to behave with ladylike restraint and had all she could do to keep from jumping up and down with glee.

Lady Penworth was summoned to visit the queen.

“I don't entirely understand it,” she told Elinor on her return. “Her Majesty seems to approve of me. Do you suppose it's because I have six children?”

“Don't be silly, Mama,” Elinor said with a grin. “It's because you clearly adore Papa, just as she adores Prince Albert. You are a Good Example and show that she isn't foolish.”

“She is, of course. If she weren't a queen, no one would take her for anything but a ninny.” Lady Penworth settled herself comfortably and took a sip of tea. “But I am grateful that she approves of our trip. It does make things easier.”

Things did not go entirely smoothly, of course.

Tunbury was relieved to be the one taking care of the minor problems, like arranging letters of credit, working out an itinerary to get them to Rome with the least discomfort, and getting passports and visas—France, Austria, and the Papal States were all involved, and some signatures could not be obtained until a week or two before arrival.

They would spend a week or so in Paris, and a hotel was needed there. Then Penworth said no—the ambassador was an old friend, so they would be staying at the embassy. So the ambassador had to be warned. Hotels would be needed in Chalons, Lyon, Aix, Avignon, and Marseilles. Then the British consul in Rome was requested to arrange for a private carriage to meet the party at Civita Vecchia, along with a
lascia-passare
, the passport that would enable them to avoid the endless formalities of the customhouse. The consul was also requested to arrange apartments for them in Rome.

In some ways everything was much simpler than it had been when he set off on his own travels. People fell over themselves to be helpful to a marquess, especially one who was an important and respected figure in the House of Lords, and—even more especially—one who was one of the wealthiest men in England.

On the other hand, not much had to be arranged for a young man traveling on his own, one who avoided mentioning his title and enjoyed the anonymity this provided. Nobody paid much attention to Harry de Vaux, who had far more freedom that Viscount Tunbury could ever have. However, that sort of travel also presented certain dangers, and more than once he had occasion to be grateful for his size and strength. Lady Penworth and Lady Elinor were entitled to all the safety and comfort that could be provided. Except…

Norrie would enjoy traveling the way he had. She would love the freedom of it, and he would be all the protection she needed. Together they could…

No.

He clamped down on that thought, determined to dismiss Lady Elinor from his mind. He had obligations, obligations he had neglected for far too long. He had two sisters.

* * *

The springs on the hired gig should have been replaced years ago, and the padding had almost completely disappeared from the seat. As good a way as any to do penance, Tunbury decided. Did he qualify as a prodigal son? Could one be a prodigal son if one's parents were prodigals themselves? The right wheel hit a bump and he went up in the air, landing on his hip and putting an end to meaningless speculations.

He was a bit late for a visit to his sisters, wasn't he? He should have come the minute he returned to England. He snorted. What rot. Late wasn't the half of it. What he should have done was talk to them before he left in the first place. Maybe he should even have taken them with him. No, that was impossible. They were only children. He couldn't have told them the truth, of course. But he could have told them something.

Instead, he had run away. There was no other way to put it. And he was planning to run away again after this visit.

The self-reproach was veering dangerously close to self-pity by the time he found himself in the blue drawing room of Bradenham Abbey, pacing nervously while he awaited his sisters. Shouldn't the room seem more familiar? This was his home, in theory at least, no matter that he'd spent little time here in the past fifteen years. Still, had it always been this smothered in heavy draperies? He would surely have remembered all these badly painted landscapes on the walls with their anatomically bizarre deer. But if they were new, what blind man had chosen them?

He paused to stare out the window, trying to decide if there had been any changes in the landscape. Perhaps it just looked gloomy because it was February and the weak sun had almost set.

“Harry!”

He turned in time to catch the bundle that hurtled into him. It wrapped its arms around him, and he looked down into brown eyes and a glowing smile under a mop of blond curls. He hugged it back. “Hullo, Olivia.” He managed to squeeze the words out around the lump in his throat.

He looked up to see his other sister standing just inside the door, hands folded at her waist, face impassive. “Hello, Julia.”

She gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment. “You remember our names. I stand amazed. I had thought that you had quite forgotten our existence.”

He flinched at the sting, deserved as it was. Had she polished that speech, preparing for this scene? All the words he had rehearsed had vanished from his mind.

“Oh no,” Olivia protested. “I knew you were coming back. When we found out you had left, Mama said you would not come back, but I was sure you would. We had your letters.”

“Your letters.” Julia's voice was flat. “Let me see. You wrote to us from Greece and told us there were ruins. Then came India. You said it was hot. And America. You said the Great Plains were flat and empty.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I'm sorry. That sounds ridiculously inadequate, I know. I can't explain, but I had to leave. I simply had to.”

“Sorry? Sorry that you left?” she asked incredulously.

“No. Sorry that I had to leave you and Olivia here on your own.”

They stared at each other in silence. Finally, she turned away and flopped down in a chair. The haughty young lady had been replaced by a sulky child. “You might as well sit down,” she said. “I'm not really angry.” She thought for a moment. “Well, yes, I am. But it's mostly envy. I'd run away too if I could.”

He sat down on a sofa cautiously, with Olivia beside him clinging to his hand. He had no idea what he ought to say. It was as if his sisters were strangers.

Well, of course they seemed like strangers. They'd been little more than babies when he went off to school, and since then he had never been at the Abbey for more than a few days at a time. But they were his sisters. He felt that he ought to know them. Pip knew his sisters.

In fact, he knew Pip's sisters too. Far better than he knew his own. He squirmed uncomfortably. He wasn't even sure how old Julia was, though she certainly wasn't a child anymore. In fact, she was really quite pretty, and her hair was up. That meant she was grown up, didn't it? He thought for a moment. She was seventeen, he was sure of it. Unless she was eighteen. No, seventeen. “Have you come out yet?”

The abrupt question won him a glare. “No, I haven't. Nor will I be coming out this season. Something else I have to thank you for.”

He blinked. “How can that be my fault?”

“Without you about, Mama was trying to pretend she was not much older than thirty. That fiction will be harder to maintain once I am out.”

“That's ludicrous.” He had to laugh. “You can't be serious.”

She shrugged, the look on her face far too cynical for a young girl.

“Are you going to be staying now?” Olivia was looking up at him with those big brown eyes.

“Don't be foolish, Livvy,” said Julia. “Why would he want to stay?”

“It's not that,” he said, the guilt piling up. “I'm going to Italy in a week or so with the Tremaines.”

“Oh, of course,” said Julia. “With the Tremaines. It's always been the Tremaines. For as long as I can remember, you've stopped off to see us only on your way to the Tremaines. They're your real family. Not us.”

The protest died in his throat. The Tremaines weren't his real family. He knew that all too well. But he had always wished they were, and he had been able to find a refuge with them for all those years. Did his sisters have such a choice? “Do you have some friends you can stay with? Some neighbors?”

Julia gave a short, bitter laugh. “Respectable people wish to have nothing to do with us. We might bring the contagion of the notorious Lady Doncaster with us.”

What an idiot he had been. He should have realized that it would be even worse for them as girls than it had been for him. He had been able to fight, and after he had bloodied enough noses, the other boys left him alone. Girls couldn't do that. They would be surrounded by whispers and slights, and they would have no way to fight back.

The stigma of bad blood would color everyone's thinking. Decent people would avoid any contact with them, fearing they would turn out just like their mother. It wouldn't be long before there would be others who sought their company, hoping they would indeed be just like their mother. He would have to deal with that problem, but he could not at the moment. Not yet.

“This trip to Italy—I have to go.” He lifted his hand in a hopeless gesture.

“Really?” Julia managed to invest that single word with a remarkable amount of scorn.

“I owe them so much, and I gave my word. But I promise that when I get back, I will take care of you. I will find some way.”

“Really?” said Olivia. There was no scorn in her voice, but the hope in her face was heartbreaking.

“Really,” he said. “Have I ever broken a promise?”

Olivia stopped and frowned in thought. “I don't think you've ever made one,” she said at last.

No, he didn't suppose he ever had. “Well, I'm making one now.”

* * *

For Lady Elinor, preparations for the trip were centered on the dressmaker. Her mother shared her concern. What were they to wear while exploring ruins and descending into tombs? Crinolines were out of the question.

Long hours in conference with the dressmaker were required, then days when Elinor and her mother spent a good deal of time with a sketchbook, followed by more hours with the dressmaker. When the final product was tried on, Mrs. Packer looked at her clients in surprise. She walked slowly around them, examining the outfits from all angles. “Well,” she said at last, “I doubt I will find any other clients willing to dress in this fashion, but I do believe you two will be able to pull it off. I only hope Lord Penworth won't demand my head for it.”

Elinor laughed and spun around. “You know he will not do anything of the sort. I only wish I could wear something like this all the time.”

“In London you would either be pelted with eggs or arrested on the spot,” said her mother dryly. “But the outfit definitely seems practical.”

It was more than practical, thought Elinor. It was wonderfully flattering. The color, a deep blue with hints of green, deepened the color of her eyes. The sturdy poplin jacket, with its corded seams running from the shoulders to the vee at the center of the waist, made her waist look tiny even without tight lacing. The ruffles at the wrists and neck of the blouse looked as soft and frivolous as lace without being nearly so fragile. As for the skirt, they had taken a leaf from Mrs. Bloomer and improved on her design. It was a divided skirt, far narrower than anything that had been seen in decades, coming down below the knee, over loose trousers that tucked into boots.

Elinor smiled at her reflection, a devilish smile. She looked ready for adventure. Harry would not be able to dismiss her as a child when he saw her in this. He would finally see her as an adventurer like him, as an equal, as a worthy partner.

She would make him see it.

The
Lady Anne
rose and fell as she proceeded across the Channel. She was no leaking sieve, no indeed. At more than a hundred feet, the
Lady
Anne
was one of the finest steam yachts designed by Robert Napier, elegant enough to carry the Penworth party in style, practical enough to serve the multitudinous Penworth interests. The party had embarked in London in the early evening, and the highly competent and experienced captain had assured them that by the time they awoke in the morning they would be safe and sound in Calais.

The Channel apparently took offense at such hubris.

There was not a storm, precisely, but winds and tides and currents all decided to play a game of tag, tossing the yacht about as if it were nothing more than a dinghy.

Lady Penworth crouched over a chamber pot and moaned that she was going to die. Her husband held her gently, emptying the chamber pot and wiping her face with a damp cloth as needed, and made soothing noises.

Rycote lay collapsed in his bunk, an arm covering his eyes, regretting that he would not live to see the newly planted apple and pear trees in his orchards bear fruit. There were more regrets, but he always tried to ignore foolish dreams.

The three servants huddled on the floor of the main cabin, clinging to the legs of the dining table, which was firmly bolted to the floor. They could not imagine what on earth had ever possessed them to leave dry land.

Lady Elinor stood on deck, holding firmly onto the rail to maintain her balance, and took deep breaths of the salty wind. It was wonderful, spectacular, fantastic, exhilarating—she did not know enough superlatives to describe the way she felt. She was beginning an adventure, and she reveled in a freedom she had never known.

It was not that she had grown up in a stifling atmosphere. Neither of her parents considered ignorance and stupidity to be virtues, even for women, so she had always been encouraged to learn, to examine, to question—at least, in private. But she had always been protected, she knew. While standing here on the deck of the ship was not actually dangerous, it was possible to pretend that it was, that she was riding a storm-tossed sea that could wash her up on the shores of some fantastic land where dragons and dangers awaited, prepared to test her courage.

“Norrie, what in God's name do you think you are doing?”

She looked up to see Tunbury running toward her, skidding a bit on the wet deck as he came to a halt beside her. His hair was blown every which way, and he was fighting the wind in an effort to button his coat.

“Hullo, Harry. Isn't it grand?” She grinned up at him, not commenting on the skid. Even though he had broken her mood, her heart gave a surprisingly familiar thump. To her confusion, that seemed to happen every time she saw him. “We're surrounded by darkness. You can't see a thing. We could have sailed off the ends of the earth, be traveling through space, for all we know.”

“And when you get washed overboard, we won't have a prayer of finding you because no one will be able to see you, you ninny.” He had to shout over the noise of the waves. He probably would have shouted anyway.

She turned away slightly. He was talking to her as if she were still a child, the way he always seemed to talk to her these days. Honestly, he had treated her with more respect when she was ten and he was showing her how to bait a hook. Couldn't he get it through his head that she was an adult? And entitled to be treated as one?

“You have no sense,” he said, still shouting.

Just then the ship lifted and sent her lurching into him. He put an arm around her waist to steady her, and she found herself leaning against him, her hands on his chest. There was a frozen moment when the world seemed to go silent. She could swear she heard her own heart beating, and his as well.

Something strange was happening. That much she knew, though she could not say what it was. Men had put their hands on her waist and held her before. It happened every time she danced at a ball. But that felt no different from her brother's touch.

This was different.

This felt nothing like having her brother hold her.

She wanted Harry to hold her closer. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and melt right into him. She felt her bones dissolving. If he hadn't been holding her up, she would be a little puddle on the deck. She wanted…she wasn't sure what she wanted, but there was something, and it was important. A little moan escaped her throat.

Then the wind and the waves regained their voices and he jumped back, snatching his hand away.

“You aren't wearing a corset.” He sounded a bit hoarse, and she might have thought he was making an accusation if she hadn't recalled the tremor she had felt when his arm was wrapped around her waist. Of course, she probably would not have been able to feel the tremor if she had been wearing a corset. Then again, if she had been wearing a corset, he might not have trembled. A puzzlement.

But he had been trembling. It wasn't just her own trembling that she had felt. And she could still feel the heat of him where he had touched her. She wouldn't have been able to feel that through a corset, at least not as well.

How dare he scold, as if she had done something wrong, when he was the one who was making her feel—well, all these things. If anyone was at fault, he was. She put up her chin and snapped at him. “That's right. I'm not wearing a corset, nor am I wearing crinolines or a half-dozen petticoats. The way we are tossing about, I wouldn't be able to move about on deck if I were, so I left them off.”

They both glanced down. The wind was blowing her skirts against her in a way that made it obvious that she had left off her petticoats. That she had legs. It was quite liberating. He made an odd sort of growling sound. Then the ship did its dip-and-rise thing again. She wasn't holding the rail any longer so she went tumbling against him again.

She didn't make any effort to keep on her feet because—she wasn't quite sure why—she wanted to lean against him. Her hands were pressed against his chest, where the rough wool of his jacket was lightly covered with damp. She could feel it right through her gloves. Would it be too forward to put her hands on his shoulders?

Apparently he thought so. He grabbed hold of her arm just above the elbow and held her away from him. Half leading and half dragging her back toward the cabins, he spoke without looking at her. “You will get inside and stay inside until your mother tells you that you may come out on deck. And that will be when it is safe to come out properly dressed.”

He sounded absolutely furious, but she was now feeling quite furious herself. “I am not a child, Harcourt de Vaux, and I am quite sensibly dressed even if I do not live up to your standards of what is proper.” She pulled her arm from his grip and stumbled to the door. “I came outside for some fresh air because, in case you had not noticed, it is quite stuffy in the cabins, to say nothing of the unpleasant smells. And I was perfectly safe until you came along and began hauling me about and acting like a bear.”

She pulled open the door on the passage to the cabins and marched through. How could he manage to be so utterly infuriating? So stupidly male? Her only regret was that the wind prevented her from giving the door a satisfactory slam.

* * *

Acting like a bear, was he? Well, that seemed reasonable, since all he wanted to do was crush her in his arms. Did she have no notion of the effect she had, walking around like that? Not just on him. She would have the same effect on any man.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the door. No, the problem was him. She was right. The way she had dressed was perfectly sensible if she wanted to come out on deck, and it was perfectly sensible to want to come out on deck. The cabins were filled with people moaning and retching. She could do nothing to help them and the fresh air was welcome. He had come out for the same reason.

After all, it wasn't as if this were a public steamer. It was, practically speaking, her own home. This was her father's steam yacht, and the only passengers were her own family.

And him.

He thumped his head against the door. He had behaved like an idiot. She had every right to be annoyed. It was hardly her fault that the realization that she was not wearing a corset and a dozen petticoats had given him an overwhelming desire to rip off whatever she was wearing and make love to her right there on the tossing deck.

He was a beast.

She was an innocent. She was part of a decent, loving family. A young girl like her knew nothing of the passions raging in him. If it seemed that he always ended up scolding her like some elderly pompous uncle, it was because as long as he scolded, he was in no danger of saying the things he must not say. He dragged her about by the arm because as long as he did that, he was not pulling her into an embrace, crushing her to him.

Self-disgust welled up in him. He had no right even to be in the same room with her. His very existence could contaminate her. His father—the earl—was a useless drunkard and his mother was no better than a whore. How could he even put a hand on her?

How could he not put a hand on her when she stood beside him, looking so innocent?

He had to keep his distance, make certain he was never alone with her. Surely it would be easier once they were on dry land again. There would be steamers on the Saône and the Rhone, and another to take them from Marseilles to Civita Vecchia, but those were not likely to be difficult journeys, not like the Channel. The others would always be around.

As long as they were all in a group, he would be able to manage. He was sure of it.

* * *

They spent a day in a hotel in Calais while Lady Penworth recuperated. Lady Elinor took care of her mother, and Rycote and the servants huddled in their own rooms to recuperate, while Tunbury and Lord Penworth took a long walk and spoke of nothing more personal than politics.

The drive to Paris took place under a gray and gloomy sky, which in no way managed to dampen Lady Elinor's spirits. She was enchanted by the rows of poplars lining the road and by the signs in French on buildings—“It's so much more thrilling to stop at an auberge than at an inn!”

She was slightly less enthusiastic about staying at the British Embassy on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Lord and Lady Cowley, the ambassador and his wife, were perfectly gracious in welcoming the marquess and his family, but she had not come to the continent to visit Englishmen, especially Englishmen of the sort she saw every day at home.

Even the meals were the same. Breakfasts of sausages and eggs and tea, when what she wanted were croissants and café au lait. Afternoon tea, when she wanted to sip an
apéritif
in a café surrounded by artists and writers—which was precisely what Pip and Harry had done, curse them.

Nonetheless, she behaved herself. She smiled sweetly and thanked Lady Cowley prettily and didn't scream with frustration. Nor did she snap at Lord Cowley when he chuckled and apologized for boring her when he realized that she had been listening to the conversation he was having with Papa about the best way to handle Louis Napoleon and his dreams of glory. She even managed a sugary simper. Fortunately, Harry came along and drew her away. At least she supposed it was fortunate.

“It is so infuriating.” She strode across the room, fists clenched, and plopped herself down on a settee. “Why do men assume that women are featherbrained idiots with no interest in anything other than fashion and frivolity?”

Harry had followed her and sat down beside her, a bit more relaxed. “Um, perhaps because you just simpered at him like a featherbrained idiot?”

That earned him a glare. “Of course I did. If I had done anything else, he would have been horrified. Poor Papa has to deal with these ignorant, bigoted fools, and I don't want to make things any more difficult for him than they already are. I do have some common sense, you know.”

Harry looked dubious.

“Papa actually finds me quite useful.”

“Useful? What do you do, charm people into supporting him?”

“Don't be silly. That would never work. What I do is ask them to explain something to me, like the public libraries or the coal mine inspection proposals. They naturally explain in a way that makes their view sound like the only sensible one. Then I can tell Papa what they really think even if they have been waffling in public.”

He stared at her and then burst into laughter. “Why, you conniving little minx!”

“Oh, stop it.” She started to grin. “I only do that sort of thing when I have to.”

“When you have to,” he agreed.

“And I only have to when gentlemen assume that I am a brainless ninny.” The grin faded. “It really isn't fair, you know. You were able to go off wherever you wanted and do whatever you wanted, and I can't even go for a walk around London by myself. Here we are in Paris, wonderful, glamorous, exciting Paris, and here I am shut up in the embassy, smiling politely at the same kind of stuffy, pompous Englishmen who used to come to Papa's political dinners at home.”

Lady Penworth appeared before Harry could say anything. There was an excited gleam in her eye. “Elinor, Lady Cowley has promised to take us shopping tomorrow. There is an Englishman at Maison Gagelin, a Mr. Worth, who is said to design the most marvelous gowns.”

Elinor perked up instantly. “Wonderful!”

“Fashion and frivolity?” Harry murmured.

Elinor sniffed. “I never said I didn't like fashion. I love clothes. I just resent it when people assume I can't possibly be interested in anything else.”

* * *

One of Mr. Worth's gowns was finished just in time for a visit to the opera—a deep rose taffeta. Elinor loved the slithery rustle it made when she moved and the way the lace ruffles of the sleeves lightly tickled her arms. With some of the new silk flowers twined around the elaborate chignon her maid, Martha, had fashioned in her hair, she felt quite pleased with her appearance.