Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) (7 page)

“Perhaps. But she leaves unfinished business in her wake.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” she said, wondering at the ease with which she told that lie.

The dance ended, Harriet and Marcus returned, and Lord Rolsbury took his leave. She stared after him. “Unfinished business” indeed!

 

 

Another trip to book shops convinced Thorne that he now possessed a complete inventory of Miss Emma Bennet’s published works. He also purchased a sampling of works by other popular writers and began mentally to plan his essay on the sort of second-rate stuff that generally appealed to women. He had composed several brilliantly skewering sentences by the time he reached home.

However, it was late in the evening before he was able to start his research. He decided to begin with a writer other than Emma Bennet. After all, he
had
read one of hers recently and he hoped that he might at least
appear
to be objective in his appraisal of these works in general. He therefore started with another Emma—the novel
Emma,
now known to have been written by Jane Austen.

He found himself caught up in the machinations of Emma Woodhouse. He laughed aloud as she tried with the best of intentions—and with disastrous results—to control the lives of those around her. Thorne was struck by the fact that he knew people exactly like the vicar’s self-important wife and Emma’s indolent father. It was very late indeed before Miss Austen allowed the Earl of Rolsbury to retire.

The next evening he dressed carefully for a planned visit to a meeting of the London Literary League.

“This group might help you prepare that piece you are working on,” Watson had told him. “In fact, you may want to join them permanently when you are in town. The meetings are
conversazioni
held in various homes.”

Thorne snorted. “What? You see
me
sitting around with a gaggle of middle-aged matrons discussing the latest Gothic novel from the Minerva Press?”

“I think you will find the League quite different from the image you have in mind.”

“Very well,” Thorne said. “I shall look in on one of these meetings if you can secure me an invitation.”

Watson had produced an invitation for the next such affair to be held at the home of Lady Gertrude Hermiston. It was not to be an ultra-formal affair, but Thorne had no desire to appear the country bumpkin Emma Bennet had presented to the world. He donned a pair of gray Cossack trousers, a white waistcoat, and a dark blue coat. Having adjusted his lordship’s neckcloth yet again, Hinton finally expressed his approval and sent him on his way.

As he was relieved of his cloak and hat in Lady Hermiston’s entrance, Thorne heard voices and laughter. Well, at least he would not be the only gentleman here—and had Watson not said he would be here as well? The butler showed him to the drawing room where he discovered some twenty-five or thirty people in attendance, fully half of them of his own gender.

Watson came forward and two women turned quickly toward the door as Thorne’s name was announced. He masked his surprise at seeing Lady Wyndham and Miss Richardson at such a gathering, though he did recall their interest in political matters at the Harts’ party.

“Allow me to introduce you to our hostess first,” Watson said, guiding Thorne over to the very group that held Lady Wyndham and Miss Richardson.

Lady Hermiston was a tall, gray-haired woman with an intelligent look in her hazel eyes. She was dressed rather fashionably in a soft green gown but wore none of the feathers fancied by so many women of her age group.

“Lord Rolsbury. How nice to meet you,” Lady Hermiston said politely, but she gave him an intense look. “I believe you know my niece, Lady Wyndham, and Miss Richardson.”

Her niece. Ah, that explained their presence at such a gathering. He greeted the other women politely.

“A number of people are eager to meet you, my lord,” Lady Hermiston said. “One in particular—Mr. Watson, you know de Quincey.”

“Thomas de Quincey?” Thorne asked in pleased surprise. She nodded and Thorne said, “I had hoped to meet him in London. I have enjoyed his essays tremendously.”

“If you like essays, perhaps you know Mr. Charles Lamb’s work?” Lady Wyndham asked.

“Yes, I do. Do not say
he
is here, too?”

“Over there.” She nodded in the direction of a group standing some distance away. “He and his sister have been cornered by Lady Mansfield and her daughter. Annabelle, we must go and rescue the Lambs in a moment.”

Miss Richardson smiled and nodded, but did not say anything. He thought it unusual for her to be quite so reticent in conversation.

Lady Hermiston continued to identify certain of her guests. “Mr. Southey, our poet laureate, is here. In a short while, Mr. Stephenson will be discussing his ideas for a new transportation system—on rails, mind you.”

“I have heard of his experiments—with some sort of steam-powered locomotion, I think?” Thorne said, deeply impressed with not only the level of intellect in the company Lady Hermiston had gathered, but also the eclectic nature of their interests. Where did Miss Richardson fit in, though?

“It will never work,” Watson said.

“I beg your pardon?” Thorne was annoyed at his own inattention.

“That rail thing. It will never work.”

“I think it
does
work even now—in mines, for instance,” Thorne said.

“Oh, yes, but only on a small scale and using horses or donkeys as the source of power,” Watson argued.

The two men excused themselves to make Rolsbury acquainted with more of the company. Lady Hermiston went to attend to some hostess duty. Moments later, Thorne saw Lady Wyndham and Miss Richardson in conversation with the Lambs.

He found himself torn between wanting to linger at this group or that and the desire to meet as many of these people as possible. It occurred to him again that Luke had the right of it—he needed to get out more. He had not realized how starved he was for just such stimulating discourse.

 

 

Annabelle had been shocked to see Lord Rolsbury turn up at Aunt Gertrude’s gathering—she had not thought of her hostess as “Lady Hermiston” in years. Actually
Lord
Wyndham’s aunt by marriage, the lady saw herself—and was readily accepted—as very much a member of the family of Marcus Jeffries, Earl of Wyndham. Aunt Gertrude also knew of Annabelle’s relationship to Miss Emma Bennet, for Lady Hermiston had been present at Miss Bennet’s “birth.”

As might be expected, there were mixed reactions to Mr. Stephenson’s remarks.

“It will never work,” Mr. Watson repeated.

“A whole network of rails throughout England?”

“Preposterous! ”

“What a marvelous idea.”

“Who will pay for it?”

Annabelle had been only mildly interested in the concept of rail transportation, but she listened with increasing interest as Mr. Stephenson outlined the advantages of such.
Faster, less expensive,
and
more
—these words dotted the engineer’s speech. When it was over and the questions had died out, the company drifted back into small groups to discuss the prospect of rail transport and then to push on to their own favorite topics. Annabelle found herself unexpectedly standing next to Lord Rolsbury at the refreshment table.

She hesitated only a moment when she saw him obviously considering the struggle of trying to cope with a plate and a glass—and his walking stick. “May I offer you my assistance, sir?”

He gave her a look of mild chagrin. “I seem in need of it.”

She took charge. “You take the glass; I can handle both plates and my glass.” She looked around. “Ah. There is a free spot at that small table over there. I shall join you as soon as I manage to snatch one of those apricot tarts before they are gone.”

He did as she said and stood waiting for her to join him. As he leaned near her to push her chair in, she caught a faint scent of the woodsy-pine aroma of what must have been his shaving soap. He even smells like the outdoors, she thought.

“Here. I brought you one, too.” She placed a tart on his plate.

“Thank you.” He gave her a teasing grin. “Partial to apricot tarts, are you?”

“Oh, yes! They are above all my favorites.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

She was amazed at how much such an innocuous comment pleased her. The room at large buzzed with conversation and they were surrounded by other people, but there was a special intimacy to their sharing this small table.

“What did you think of Mr. Stephenson’s remarks?” she asked conversationally to cover her nervousness.

“I am inclined to think there is a great deal of merit in them. However, such a project as he envisions will not be easy.”

“Impossible, perhaps?”

“No,” he said. “We are seeing steam power put to more and more uses—in our knitting mills, for instance. But those are private entities. Mr. Stephenson’s project will take a tremendous amount of interest—not to say effort and funding—on the part of public entities.”

“You do not speak only of Parliament, do you?” She saw him raise his brows at this question.

“No. I do not. It must also involve bankers and businessmen. The sheer logistics will be staggering—mate—rials, right-of-way struggles—staggering!”

They sat in silence for a moment. Then, sounding a bit hesitant, he said, “Miss Richardson, I wonder if I might enlist your aid on a project of my own?”

“If I may be of help, certainly.”

“I gather you are familiar with the writers in this room—and their works?”

“Yes-s-s . . .” It was her voice that sounded hesitant now.

“Are you also familiar with the works of popular novelists?”

“Some of them.” She was suddenly on her guard.

“And the authors?”

“Some of them,” she repeated. “I know Mr. Scott, for instance, and Mrs. Edgeworth. Wh-what are you proposing?”

“I intend a rather scholarly analysis of the phenomenon of the modern novel.”

“I see . . .” But she did not see, really, what he was about.

“I shall, of course, include in my study the works of our friend, Miss Emma Bennet.”

“I see . . .” Now she not only felt foolish in repeating herself so, but she felt a twinge of apprehension slither through her. What
was
he up to?

“I shall interview such of them as I can. I would have liked to interview Miss Austen,” he said regretfully.

“Her death was very untimely—not, mind you, that death is ever considered truly timely.” She thought this a morose comment, so she added brightly, “But her work will continue to delight for some time to come.”

“Yes. I think hers will do so.”

“You—you wanted my help?”

“Yes. As you know more of London society in general than I—and apparently have some familiarity with the literary scene—I wonder if you could help me locate Emma Bennet so that I might interview her?”

Annabelle was stunned. “L-locate Emma Bennet?” she stuttered.

“I thought you might have some ideas on the matter,” Lord Rolsbury said.

“N-not really.”

“Have you no interest in the matter at all? I should think you would bear some resentment of her high-handedness.” He gave her a penetrating look.

“Well ...” Annabelle struggled for a response. “In truth, the portrait of the heiress was not as devastating as that of the suitors.”

“Precisely. That is what led me to believe you must be known to her. Though I am forced to observe that the piece does not present a very flattering view of
you,
either.”

“I had not thought of it as flattering or unflattering.” She realized this was the truth. She had concentrated on caricatures of the other persons in the story and just let the character of the heiress develop in relation to those around her.

“I do not see much in the way of real characterization in the portrait of the heiress in that story,” Rolsbury said. “She has not your
spirit
—she is far too passive.”

Annabelle knew she would find amusement in this scene later, but for now she did not know whether to be offended or flattered. On the one hand, Rolsbury had just accused Emma Bennet of shallow character development. On the other, he apparently viewed Miss Richardson as far more likable than the heiress in the story.

She gave him what she thought must be a vacuous smile and said, “Thank you—I think. Probably the writer intended to focus on other characters.”

“Probably.” He sounded vague and she hoped he was tiring of the topic. “So? Can you help me?”

She chose her words carefully. “I do not see how I could possibly produce the information you need.” Lord! How she hated lying. She was surely no better at it than Letty.

“In your circles, you might come across something.”

“I will try to keep my eyes and mind open,” she said.

They went on to discuss other matters, but for Annabelle the easy camaraderie of the first part of their conversation was gone.

 

 

Several days into his research on popular novels, Thorne abruptly realized that he was violating the first rule of scholarship. He was trying to justify a preconceived notion instead of keeping an open mind to see what he could learn about what was, after all, a fairly new literary phenomenon.

True, telling stories was perhaps mankind’s oldest form of entertainment. The novel,
per se,
had appeared only in the last century, however. When he set about defining his terms and examining his primary sources, those brilliantly skewering judgments seemed no longer quite so brilliant.

He wanted to test some of his ideas, but the London Literary League was not due to meet for another two weeks. Few of his gentlemen friends possessed either the interest or expertise he wished for in such a sounding board, and Luke was a lost cause in that regard. His sister, Catherine, would be the perfect person with whom to have such a dialogue, but she was still in the country. Suddenly, the image of Miss Richardson popped into his mind.

Well, why not? It was worth a try, though he still harbored reservations about her. He had watched her carefully when he had asked for assistance in finding Emma Bennet. He was convinced she was being evasive. Was she protecting a friend? Was it possible that Lady Wyndham was Emma Bennet? Or Lady Hermiston? Miss Richardson herself? No. He had now read other of Miss Bennet’s works and they showed a maturity of viewpoints that went far beyond those of someone who had as few years as he knew Miss Richardson to have. Why, she was of an age with Luke!

In fact, the other works—all predating the short
Innocence Betrayed
—showed a more polished maturity than that short, satirical piece did. Surely, there was only one Emma Bennet?

During a morning call at Wyndham House, he found a moment of relative privacy in which to ask Miss Richardson to go driving with him later.

She gave him an arch look. “I thought it was Luke with whom I was to be seen on such an outing.”

He grinned. “I think our reputations will survive our being seen in a public place like the park.”

“If you say so, my lord.”

He was pleased at the teasing note in her response. “I do say so. And I wonder if we might assume a less formal means of address between us? I notice that it is ‘Luke’ and ‘Annabelle.’ Might it also be ‘Thorne’ and ‘Annabelle’?”

“Why, of course, if that is your wish. ‘Thorne’ it is.”

“Annabelle.” He gave her a mocking little bow to seal their agreement. “I shall call for you later then.”

 

 

Annabelle dressed carefully for the outing with Lord Rolsbury—Thorne. How easy it was to think of him in more intimate terms! She had to warn herself that she must be careful around him. After all, the man still intended to take Emma Bennet to task. She finally donned a brown-and-gold-striped day dress that complemented her coloring. A gold-colored light woolen shawl and a saucy straw bonnet were the finishing touches.

He handed her into the carriage rather smoothly, then tossed his walking stick on the floor and clambered in himself somewhat awkwardly.

“I have not mastered my technique yet,” he said with an embarrassed chuckle.

“And here I was thinking you did that very well,” she assured him, pleased that he felt comfortable enough with her to make such an allusion to his infirmity.

He picked up the reins and signaled his tiger, who had been holding the horses’ heads. The boy climbed up behind them and Thorne concentrated on driving as they left the quiet residential street for more trafficked thoroughfares. Annabelle admired the ease with which he managed his team. She was keenly aware of his body so close to her own and the occasional contact from the swaying of the carriage.

She knew she was babbling as she made idle conversation that demanded little of his attention while he drove. Finally, they entered the park and he visibly relaxed.

“This is the first time I have driven in town in years,” he admitted apologetically. “I usually have my coachman contend with all this city traffic.”

“Well, I am flattered that you took on the great challenge for me,” she said, deliberately trying to put him at ease.

He nodded. “I am not merely playing the role of the white knight out to slay the dragon of city traffic. I confess I had an ulterior motive in asking you to accompany me.”

“Oh, dear,” she said in a teasing mockery of shock. “Am I to fear for my reputation, after all?”

He chuckled. “Not yet, at least. I wanted to talk books with you.”

“Books?” She wondered where this was leading.

“Yes. I have been doing a great deal of reading lately.”

“I see . . .”

“By the by—have you discovered anything of Miss Bennet that might be of use to me?”

“I ... uh ... no. I think not.”

“Pity. I have been reading her earlier works, trying to get a grip on her thinking.”

“Oh?” She hoped the monosyllable sounded indifferent enough that he would change the subject.

They were detained momentarily by Lady Oglethorpe, who stopped to greet them. She rode with two other middle-aged ladies in an open carriage driven by a coachman. All three women eyed the earl and his companion with speculative looks.

When they had driven on, Thorne said, “I suppose we will be an
on dit
in certain drawing rooms this evening.”

“Probably,” she agreed, glad the subject had been changed.

Only it had not. “Yes. Well,” Thorne said, “as I was about to say, I find Miss Bennet’s work to be terribly uneven.”

“I ... uh ... I am not sure what you mean.”

He looked at her, a question in his gray-green gaze. “Have you read her earlier work?”

“Yes. I daresay I have read them all,” she replied and hoped she had not said more than she should.

“Well, then—would you not agree that the earlier works are far superior to
Innocence Betrayed?”
He pronounced the title with particular contempt.

“In what way?” She felt both defensive and genuinely curious about his reactions.

“Why, in nearly every way that matters. The characters that have
not
been drawn upon real people are, ironically, far more genuine portraits. The earlier stories themselves have more substance as well.”

She felt somewhat chagrined, for this assessment of her work coincided with her own judgment—now. She was pleased that he found the early works laudable, and it was frustrating to have to conceal her pleasure. However, the implied criticism of her latest effort rankled. It was not
that
bad, after all.

“Well . . .” She drew the word out slowly, trying to think.

“You do not agree?”

“Not entirely. But perhaps the circumstances of the writing were different.”

“Oh, no doubt they were.” This comment had a particularly bitter tone. His attention was diverted as he manipulated their vehicle around another.

To forestall his returning to the matter of Emma Bennet again, she asked in a brightly conversational tone, “What other writers have you dealt with in your research?”

He named several and they spent the rest of the drive discussing the relative merits of the works of Mrs. Edgeworth, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Miss Austen. They found they quite agreed on Miss Austen, but argued vehemently about certain aspects of the works of the other two.

By asking an astute question here and there, she managed to keep him away from the subject of Emma Bennet. She found herself enjoying matching wits with him—and just being with him.

Only one thing—other than the Emma Bennet discussion—marred the outing. At one point, she noticed a familiar rider approaching. Viscount Beelson was almost upon them before he apparently recognized the occupants of this particular carriage. He gave them a hard stare, then in a silent and sardonic pantomime, he tipped his hat to her and rode on.

“Is it my imagination—or did Lord Beelson just give you the cut direct?” she asked in appalled surprise.

“You did not imagine it. But do not refine upon it, Annabelle. Beelson and I have an unpleasant history.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. She was intensely curious, but his closed expression suggested it would be a subject best not pursued at the moment. She would ask Luke about it later.

 

 

When they returned to Wyndham House, Thorne signaled his tiger to take charge of the horses, then descended from the carriage and turned to assist Annabelle. As she stepped down, she stumbled and fell against him. He reacted quickly to catch her, but his leg gave out and they were suddenly in the rather awkward position of holding each other up. Her bonnet was knocked askew and her hair brushed his face. She smelled of lilacs.

He heard her draw in a quick breath and she held his gaze for a long moment. His glance fell to her mouth—that kissable mouth—and he knew that if they were not standing in the street he would act on his impulse to kiss her. And he also felt that she would be receptive to such.

Then the moment was gone.

He released her and reached for his walking stick. “I am sorry,” he said. “My leg—”

She smiled. “No. ’Twas my fault. My foot caught on the step. These dratted slippers match my dress, but they are not very sturdy footwear.”

“ ’Tis generous of you to blame female vanity instead of male clumsiness, but I cannot accept such sacrifice.”

“Then we shall have to share equally.” She took his arm as he walked her to the door.

He thanked her and returned to the carriage as the butler admitted her to the house. He felt a sense of loss and realized his farewell had not been empty courtesy. He truly
had
enjoyed the outing and would have gladly prolonged his time with her.

Careful, old man, he admonished himself. After all, this was the woman for whom his brother had offered. Thorne had no intention of being a party to causing Luke unnecessary pain.

 

 

While she dressed for dinner, Annabelle thought over the day. As she became better acquainted with him, she found she enjoyed Thorne more and more. He engaged in some of the same boyish teasing that she found so charming in Luke. But there was far more depth to Thome—and Luke’s mere touch did not change her pace of breathing or send her heart tumbling erratically.

In a less public place, would he have kissed her? She rather thought he would have. And she knew very well that she would have welcomed his embrace. Jezebel! She laughed at herself. Not to say want-witted. Was she forgetting his real purpose in the Wainwrights having anything to do with her? He merely intended to quell damaging gossip in order to facilitate his serious work in Parliament. And he obviously had no intention of dropping his quest for Emma Bennet.

Marcus had spent much of the last few days away from home. Annabelle knew he was preoccupied with several matters before Parliament.

At dinner, Harriet asked her husband, “Has Lord Rolsbury given his maiden speech in Lords yet?”

“Yes. Two—maybe three—days ago.”

“You did not tell me.” Harriet’s voice was mildly accusing.

“I tried to. The other night. Remember? You had other things on your mind.”

Annabelle saw Harriet’s brow wrinkle in bewilderment, then it cleared and a blush suffused her face. “Marcus!”

“Yes, love?” His tone was innocence, but he wore a wicked grin.

“Oh, never mind,” she said in a wifely I-shall-deal-with-you-later tone. Then she added, “So—how did Rolsbury’s speech go? Was it well received?”

Annabelle leaned forward, keenly interested.

“I thought it went very well, though reactions were mixed.”

“Why?” Harriet asked.

“What issues did he address?” Annabelle asked.