Season's Regency Greetings (2 page)

The actualities were confirmed a short time later, when Lord and Lady Falstoke and the betrothed pair stopped at the Select Academy on their way to London's modistes, cobblers, and milliners. On acquaintance with Sir Lysander, who did prove to be charming and handsome, Cecilia began to see the difficulty. She watched how Lady Janet hung on his every word, and found herself unable to tear herself from his side during the entire evening. Cecilia could not overlook the fact that the more Janet clung, the quieter Lucinda became.

Cecilia looked down at her sleeping charge. It
is
a most trying age, my dear, she thought. Hopefully a visit home would prove the antidote. At least Cecilia could lay the matter before Lady Falstoke, and get help from that quarter.

They arrived at Falstoke in the middle of the next afternoon, and the view, even in December, did not disappoint. Cecilia listened with a smile on her face as Lucy, more excited as the miles passed, pointed out favorite places. Her smile deepened as Lucy took hold of her arm and leaned forward.

“
Oh, Miss Ambrose, just around this bend!”

She knew that Hugo Chase, Marquis of Falstoke, was a wealthy man, but the estate that met her eyes surprised her a little. Chase Hall was smaller than she would have imagined, but discreet, tasteful, and totally in harmony with the setting of trees, meadow, and stream. She could see a small lake in the near distance.

“
Oh, Lucinda!” she exclaimed.

“
I love coming home,” her pupil said softly.

They traveled the tree-lined lane to the circle drive and wide front steps, Lucy on the edge of the seat. When they came to a stop, Lucy remained where she was. “This is strange,” she murmured. “No one is here to meet us.” She frowned. “Usually the servants are lined up and Mama and Papa are standing on the steps.” She took Cecilia's hand. “Can something be wrong?”

“
Oh, surely not,” Cecilia replied. “We would have heard.” But we've been on the road, she added silently to herself. “Let us go inside.” She patted Lucy's hand. “My dear, it is Christmastime and everyone is busy!” She saw the door open. “There, now. Uh, is that your butler? He is somewhat casual, is he not?”

Lucy looked up, her eyes even wider. “Something has happened! It is my uncle Trevor.”

The man came down the steps as Lucy came up, and caught her in his arms. Cecilia was relieved to see the smile on his face; surely that did not signal bad news. It was a nice smile, she decided, even if the man behind it was as casually dressed as an out of work road mender. She couldn't really tell his age. She assumed that Lord Falstoke was in his middling forties. This uncle of Lucy's had to be a younger brother. How curious then, for his hair was already gray. She smiled to herself. And had not seen a comb or brush yet that day, even though it was late afternoon.

He was a tall man who, despite his disheveled appearance, managed to look quite graceful, even as he hugged his niece, then kissed the top of her head. No, graceful was not the precise word, she decided. He is dignified. I doubt anyone ever argues with him. I know I would not.

She left the post chaise herself, content to stand on the lowest step quite unnoticed, as a young boy hurtled out of the open door and into his sister's arms. The three of them—niece, nephew, and uncle—stood on the steps with their arms around one another. She came closer, feeling almost shy, and Lucy remembered her manners. “Miss Ambrose, I am sorry! Allow me … this is my uncle, Trevor Chase, Papa's only brother. Uncle, this is my teacher, Miss Cecilia Ambrose.”

Cecilia didn't see how he did it, not with children on both sides of him, but he managed an elegant bow. You are well trained enough, she thought as she curtsied back, even if you do look like a refugee from Bedlam. “Delighted to meet you,” she said.

“
I doubt it,” he replied, and there was no mistaking the good humor in his wonderful voice. “You are probably wondering what lunatic asylum I escaped from.”

It was not the comment she expected, and certainly not the appraisal she was used to: one glance, and then another, when the person did not think she was looking. Cecilia could see nothing but goodwill on his face, rather than suspicion.

“
My uncle is a barrister,” the young boy said. He tugged on the man's sleeve. “I shall go find Janet,” he said, and went into the house.

“
You are … you are a barrister?” she asked. The name was familiar to her. Was he a father of a student in her advanced watercolor class? No, that was not it. It will come to me, she thought.

“
Miss Ambrose, he is the best barrister in the City,” Lucinda assured her. She leaned against him, and Cecilia could tell that in the short space of a few minutes, all of Miss Dupree's deportment lessons had flown away on little wings. “Papa says he likes to right wrongs, and that is why he almost never comes here. There are more wrongs in London, apparently.”

The man laughed. “You're too polite, dear Lucy,” he replied, and gave his niece a squeeze before he released her. “He refers to me as the patron saint of lost causes.” He gestured toward Cecilia. “Come indoors, Miss Ambrose. You're looking a little chilly.”

The foyer was as beautiful as she had thought it would be, soft color on the walls, delicate plasterwork above, and intricate parquetry underfoot. “What a wonderful place,” she said.

“
It is, indeed,” Lord Trevor agreed. “I know there are many country seats larger than this one, but none more lovely, to my way of thinking.” He rubbed his hands and looked around. “I love to come home, now and then.”

“
Where is Mama?” Lucy asked as a footman silently approached and divested her of her traveling cloak.

“
Lucy! Thank God you have come! This family is beset with Trying Events!”

Well, I suppose I can safely say that others in this family besides Lucy tend to speak in capital letters, Cecilia thought as she allowed Lord Trevor to help in the removal of her cloak. Lucy ran to her sister Janet, who stood with her arms outstretched dramatically.

“
I do believe the most trying event is Janet's propensity to be Yorkshire's premier actress of melodrama and melancholy,” Lord Trevor murmured to her as he handed her cloak to the footman. “I have only been here three days myself, and already I want to strangle her.”

She looked at him in surprise, then put her lips together so she would not laugh.

Lord Trevor only grinned at her, which made the matter worse. “Such forbearance, Miss Ambrose,” he said. “You have my permission to laugh! If you can withstand this, then you must be the lady who teaches deportment at Miss Dupree's Whatchamacallit.”

“
Far from it,” she replied. “I teach drawing and the pianoforte.”

He took her arm through his and walked her down the hall toward the two young ladies. “My dear Janet, wouldn't this be a good time to tell your sister what is going on, before she thinks that pirates from the Barbary Coast have abducted your parents?”

“
Lucy would never think such a thing!” Janet declared, looking at him earnestly. “I doubt there have ever been any pirates in Yorkshire.”

Lord Trevor only sighed. Forcing down her laughter, Cecilia spoke up in what she hoped were her best educator's tones. “Lady Janet, perhaps you can tell us where your parents are? Your sister is concerned.”

Janet looked at her, a tragic expression on her lovely face. “Oh, Miss … Miss Ambrose, is it? My parents have bravely gone into a charnel house of pestilence and disease.”

Lord Trevor glowered at his older niece. “Cut line, Janet,” he said. He put his arm around Lucy. “Amelia's brood came down with the measles three days ago, and your parents have gone to York to help. I expect them home tomorrow. Amelia is the oldest of my nieces,” he explained to Cecilia over his shoulder. “It's just the dratted measles.”

“
Only this afternoon I wrote to my dear Lysander, who will drop everything to hurry to this beleaguered household and give us the benefit of his wisdom,” Janet said.

“
Janet, we can depend upon Uncle Trevor to look out for us,” Lucy said shyly.

“
Uncle Trevor is far too busy to worry about us, Lucy,” her sister replied, dismissing her sister with a wave of her handkerchief. “And didn't he say over breakfast this morning that he must return to London immediately after our parents are restored to us? Depend upon it; Lysander will hurry to my side, and all will be well.” She nodded to Cecilia. “Come, Lucinda. I have much to tell you about my dear Lysander.”

“
But shouldn't I show Miss Ambrose to her room?” Lucy asked.

“
That is what servants are for, Lucy. Come along.”

After a backward glance at Cecilia, Lucinda trailed upstairs after her sister. Cecilia's face burned with the snub. Lord Trevor regarded her with sympathy.

“
What do you say, Miss Ambrose? Should we wait until Lysander arrives, tie him up with Janet, and throw them both in the river? It's too late to drown them at birth. Ah, that is better,” he said when she laughed. “Do excuse my niece's manners. If I ever fall in love—and the prospect seems remote—I promise not to be so rude.” He indicated the sitting room, with its open door and fire crackling in the grate. “Come sit down, and let me take a moment to reassure you that we are not all denatured, drooling simpletons.”

She needed no proof of that, but was happy to accompany him into the sitting room. He saw that she was seated close to the fire, a hassock under her feet, and then spoke to the footman.

“
Tea or coffee, Miss Ambrose?” he asked. “I know coffee isn't ordinarily served in the afternoon, but I am partial to it, and don't have a second's patience with what I should and should not do.”

“
Coffee, if you please,” she answered, amused out of her embarrassment. She removed her gloves, and fluffed her hair, trapped too long by her bonnet.

The footman left, and Lord Trevor stood by the fireplace. She regarded him with some interest, because she remembered now who he was. Miss Dupree, considered a radical by some, subscribed to two London newspapers, even going so far as to encourage her employees to read them. The other female teachers seldom ventured beyond the first page. The Select Academy's two male instructors read the papers during the day while they drank tea between classes. When class was over, and if the downstairs maid hadn't made her circuit, Cecilia gathered up the papers from the commons room. She took them to her room to pore over in the evening hours, after she had finished grading papers, and when it was not her turn to be on duty in the sitting room when the young ladies were allowed visitors.

She knew next to nothing of the British criminal trial system, but could not resist reading about the cases that even Mrs. Dupree, for all her radical views, must have considered sordid and sensational. No matter; Cecilia read the papers, and here was a barrister well known to her from criminal trials, written up in the florid style of the London dailies.

I should say nothing, she told herself as she sat with her hands folded politely, her ankles together. He will think I am vulgar. Besides, I am leaving as soon as I can.

He cleared his throat and she looked up.

“
Miss Ambrose, I am sorry for this disorder in which you find us.”

He
is
self-conscious about this, she thought. I think he even wishes he had combed his hair. Look how he is running his fingers through it. She smiled. I suppose even brilliant barristers sometimes are caught up short. Well, join the human race, sir.

“
Oh, please don't apologize, Lord Trevor,” she said. She hesitated, then gave herself a mental shrug. This is a man I do admire, she thought. What can it hurt if I say something? I will be gone tomorrow. “Lord Trevor, I … I sometimes read in the newspaper of your legal work.”

“
What?”

She winced inwardly. How could one man invest so much weight in a single word? Was this part of his training? Oh, Lord, I am glad I will never, ever have to face this man in the docket, she thought. Or over a breakfast table.

She opened her eyes wider, wondering at the origin of that impish thought. She reminded herself that she was a teacher, and dedicated to the edification of her pupils. Breakfast table, indeed! She dared to glance at him, and saw, to her temporary relief at least, he had not turned from the fireplace, where he warmed his hands.

“
I beg your pardon, Miss Ambrose,” he was saying, “I must have misheard. Do forgive me. Did you say that you
read the newspaper
?”

“
I do,” she replied simply. She discovered that she could no more lie to this man than sprout wings and fly across the plain of York. In for a penny, she thought grimly. “And … and I am a great admirer of your work.”

It must have been the wrong thing to say, she decided. Why on earth did I admit that I read the paper? she asked herself in misery as he slowly turned around from his hand warming. As he raised his eyebrows, she wished she could vanish without a trace and suddenly materialize in her Bath sitting room, grading papers and waiting for the dinner bell. “Well, I am,” she said.

He smiled at her. “Why, thank you, Miss Ambrose.” He seated himself beside her. “Do you pass on what you learn to your students?”

She listened hard for any sarcasm in his voice, but she could detect none. She also did not see any disparagement or condescension in his face, which gave her heart. “No, I don't pass it on,” she said quietly, then took a deep breath. “I only wish that I could.” She sat a little straighter then, suddenly feeling herself very much the child of crusading evangelists. “I believe you should receive great credit for what you do, rather than derision, Lord Trevor. Didn't I read only last week that you had been denied a position of Master of the Bench at Lincoln's Inn?”