Sattler, Veronica (32 page)

But
at the same time Ashleigh was uncomfortably aware that Percy and Mary struck at
the heart of the moral code with which she'd been raised. It mattered not that
the locale of her upbringing had been Hampton House; through all the years
she'd lived there, she'd been more a product of Dorcas's strongly held
traditional views than anything else—views that were strongly aligned with
those of her parents and the household of her youth. Now, all at once, she
discovered herself exposed to people whose behavior and thinking were in some
ways more shocking than all the doings of Hampton House— more shocking because
they were being set forth here in open and polite society, at the home of one
of the most prestigious families in the nation. What was she to think? She'd
have to ponder on this a long while.

"I
read your
Queen Mab
last year," Christopher was saying, "and I
must say, your vitriolic verse trounced us all soundly. Not only did the
institution of marriage come under the lashing of your bitter pen, but so did,
if I recall correctly, the monarchy, the aristocracy, religion, and war."

"And
don't forget his barbs against economic exploitation," Brett added with a
good-natured grin. "Sir, that piece, I fear, has irrevocably launched you
in English intellectual society as a rabidly dangerous radical."

"Ah,
but he was well on his way to that with his visit to Ireland the year
before," said Christopher, his grin matching Brett's. "Did you really
think, Percy, that you could make any headway in the movement for Catholic
emancipation and freedom from English control?"

Percy
grinned back at both of them. "I produced two pamphlets and spoke at a
huge meeting of the Irish nationalist leaders in Dublin, didn't I?"

"My
dear fellow," said Brett, "it's not your activities in Ireland that
we question and marvel at. It's that you have subsequently returned to England
and lived to tell about it!"

There
was shared laughter by all three men at this jest, with even the marquis of
Wright joining in at the end, although Ashleigh could tell the poor man was
having a difficult time reconciling the presence of Shelley with the
aristocratic gathering in the duke's gardens. As for Ashleigh herself, here
she'd found the contradictions the poet presented even more confounding. Her
mother had been an Irish Catholic, and although, after much soul-searching, her
parents had decided to raise her and her brother in their father's Anglican
faith, she had always had strong feelings about the Irish Cause.

And
now here was Percy Shelley, a man she had been on the verge of dismissing as
too dangerous to pay attention to, espousing the very cause she would champion
if she could!

"Tell
me, sir," she advanced cautiously to the poet, "do you really think
the Irish have a chance?"

"A
better one than the French, though perhaps not as good as the Americans,"
said Shelley, apparently not at all surprised that a woman was posing questions
of a political nature.

"And
why is that, sir?" Ashleigh asked, and then, as if struck by an idea, she
attempted to answer her own question. "Would it have anything to do,
perhaps, with how much physical distance separates the oppressed from their
oppressors?"

"My
God, we have a thinking woman here!" cried Shelley with an expression of
delight. "Quickly, Mary, do not let her get away without an invitation to
come and visit. The two of you would add intellectual spice, as well as beauty,
to our drawing room."

But
Elizabeth at this juncture had had about all she could take of Shelley and his
shocking ideas—not to mention the overbearing burden of having to suffer the
presence of both Ashleigh Sinclair and Pamela Marlowe at once.

Her
eyes narrowing until they resembled silver slits, she fixed her gaze on
Ashleigh. "Miss Sinclair, I hardly think your views on politics, no matter
how they charm Mr. Shelley here, are appropriate for a hostess at Ravensford
Hall. And, speaking of your duties, I rather think it's time you withdrew to
see to them, don't you?"

There
was a brief gasp from Mary Godwin at the overt rudeness of her tone, while
condemning glances from the others said as much, but Ashleigh was beyond
reacting with anything but a desire to take the escape Elizabeth's words
afforded. Feeling utterly foolish at having thought she might be at ease in the
company of these worldly aristocrats, and feeling the sting of yet another
snipe from Elizabeth Hastings, she bit her lower lip to stem the flow of tears
that threatened, made a brief curtsy in the direction of the betrothed couple,
and murmured, "Of course, my lady." Then she whirled and moved
rapidly toward the path.

Christopher
took a moment to send Elizabeth a scathing look, then strode quickly after
Ashleigh's departing figure. "Ashleigh, wait!" he called. "I'll
escort you back."

When
he had gone, several pairs of accusing eyes fell on Elizabeth, but it was
Pamela Marlowe who broke the silence.

"Oh,
well done, my dear," she crooned. "A perfect preview of how the
well-bred duchess should behave. How very
superior
of you!" After a
low, exaggerated curtsy in Elizabeth's direction, Pamela picked up her skirts,
turned, and she, too, headed for the path.

Brett's
gaze followed Pamela's green skirts as they disappeared from view. There was
little in his stance to indicate his emotions at the moment, but anyone looking
more closely would have noted a tightening about the muscles of his jaw and
mouth and the glacial quality of the turquoise eyes.

There
were several things working at once in his mind, and each had to do with a
female. To begin with, of course, there was the despicable behavior of the
creature at his side, confirming all he'd envisioned he might expect from the
inbred hothouse plant he was taking as his wife; then there were the less
predictable but equally irksome actions of his mistress. Oh, he'd been well
enough prepared for her snide and catty remarks earlier in the conversation,
but it was her retreating thrust that really rubbed. He wished
he'd
been
the one to have said them! And the fact that his position hadn't left him the
liberty to do so while that of Pamela, of all people,
had
—it almost
didn't bear thinking on!

And
finally there was Ashleigh Sinclair. Or, to put it more specifically, Ashleigh
and Christopher. How it galled him to stand helplessly by and watch that rake
of an earl ply her with his green-eyed looks and solicitous words!
He
should
have been the one to escort her back to the Hall and lend comfort where it was
needed—
not
Christopher Edwards!

But
did Ashleigh, as his legal ward, send him one look that would have encouraged
such help? Did she, even once, during all of Ranleagh's fawning attentions,
seek
him
out with a glance or throw a smile
his
way? No! Instead,
he had to stand aside and play the virtuous guardian, driven by his own
damnable sense of honor not to touch her, never again to—
Damn!
Was he
to play the fool in his own house? He'd never before been caught in such a coil
by a female, and, by God, he wasn't about to endure it now!

Suddenly
Brett turned and threw a quick glance at those left with him in the clearing,
his eyes finally resting on Elizabeth.

"Well,
my dear," Brett said ever so softly, "it seems you are indeed bent on
playing the duchess, therefore I leave you to carry on. Shelley...
Wright," he murmured, ignoring Elizabeth's gasp and bowing slightly to the
two remaining men in the group, "see Mary and Her Grace-to-be back to the
Hall, won't you?"

And
with a courteous bow to Mary Godwin and a barely perceptible nod to Elizabeth,
the duke of Ravensford became the fourth person to retreat up the path in as
many minutes.

"I
tell you, I shall be perfectly fine, Christopher, though I do thank you for
your solicitations. This is not the first time I have had to deal with the, ah,
high-handed behavior of... certain people, and—"

"High-handed!"
exclaimed Christopher. "Ashleigh, it was positively rude and vicious, and
all of us there in that garden knew it!"

"Nevertheless,"
Ashleigh sighed, "I am in no position to do anything about it, nor do I
plan to, other than seek out a few quiet moments by myself. Please, your
lordship, allow me to be excused and avail myself of some privacy?"

It
was the earl's turn to sigh. They were standing in a little-used hallway that
connected the servants' passageway to the terrace, with the formal rooms of the
first floor. At the opposite end from where they stood there was also a door
that led to the kitchens, and this was where Ashleigh was headed, hoping she'd
made it clear to Christopher that he should go back to join some of the other
guests in the drawing room or elsewhere.

"Very
well, princess," said Christopher. "I'll withdraw if you're sure
you'll be—"

"At
the risk of sounding tedious, my lord, I tell you I shall be fine."
Ashleigh smiled. "And I really should look in on what's happening in the
kitchens—my duties as hostess, you know...." She finished with a
wide-eyed, imploring look she hoped would convince him.

Christopher
smiled, more taken than ever with the guileless sincerity he read in her face,
then took her hand and bowed gracefully while bestowing a soft kiss on it.
"Until later, princess," he murmured, then turned and headed for the
sounds of low laughter and voices drifting from the formal rooms at the front
of the Hall.

When
he had gone, Ashleigh hurried toward the door to the kitchens, opened it and
slipped inside.

It
wasn't the main cooking room itself she entered, but the creamery, a chamber
roughly twelve feet square and lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves that held a
multitude of crocks and jars of varying sizes. In one corner stood an ancient
wooden butter churn and beside it, a small worktable bearing an assortment of
ladles, skimmers, funnels and the like, all of them in gleaming, highly
polished brass. The room was immaculate, and Ashleigh smiled as she thought of
the high standards of Hettie Busby.

But
suddenly Ashleigh's attention was drawn to another corner of the dimly lit
chamber. There a rustle of silk and a quick, furtive movement indicated she was
not alone.

"Oh...
oh, dear!" exclaimed a soft, tremulous voice. "I suppose I've been
caught out this time."

Peering
toward the voice, Ashleigh made out the slightly plump, rounded figure of a
small, elderly woman dressed in a dove-gray gown that appeared costly and well
made, but of a design that belonged to an earlier era, for though it lacked
hoops or panniers, it was sashed at the natural waistline, and the modest
neckline was supplemented by a snowy-white fichu. The wearer's head was covered
by a soft mass of gray curls bobbing about a face that would have appeared
benign, were it not for the look of apprehension in the hazel eyes that now met
Ashleigh's.

"Hello,"
said Ashleigh. "I'm sorry if I frightened you. I didn't mean to."

"It—it's
the cream, you see," said the woman. "I just love it so. They... they
almost never let me have any at home." Here the hazel eyes blinked a
moment, then stole a furtive glance toward the partially ajar door leading to
the kitchen. "Will... will... You won't tell on me, will you?" the
woman added at last as her gaze returned to Ashleigh.

Ashleigh
glanced down and saw that the woman's hands held a small saucer filled with
cream, and they were trembling. A closer inspection of the small, plump face
revealed a creamy white "mustache" lining her upper lip.

With
a smile Ashleigh shook her head. "Not if you don't wish me to." She
stepped forward a pace and held out her hand. "I'm Ashleigh Sinclair. I'm
His Grace's official hostess and, also, his ward."

The
gray curls bobbed again, but their owner made no move to release the saucer of
cream. "Yes... yes, Sinclair...
Oh, yes,
I've heard all about
you!
David told me." Suddenly the hazel eyes widened. "Oh, but my
dear! You must get yourself away from here—at once! They'll never allow you to
stay, you know." Another furtive glance at the door to the kitchen.
"Once they're crossed, there's only trouble, you know.... yes... I know
all about the trouble
she
can cause...."

"Trouble?
But who...?"

"Elizabeth
doesn't like you at all, you see. Oh, but you must
know
that. And
she.
.."
The hazel eyes flickered and then seemed to go blank.

"Elizabeth!"
Ashleigh exclaimed. "I... see. Oh, but look here, madam, I hardly
think—oh, I don't even know your name."

"My
name... oh, yes, I have a name, of course. How silly of me! I'm Lady Hastings.
But you may call me Jane. Everyone does."

"Lady
Hastings! Why, you must be Lady Elizabeth's grandmother!"

A
ghost of a smile broke over the old woman's face. "So they tell me,"
she murmured.

Her
words had a faintly cryptic ring to them, and Ashleigh was just about to
question her when the door to the kitchen flew open, and a tall figure in black
stepped into the chamber.