The Rambunctious Lady Royston (11 page)

She would settle for a grudging admiration for the girl's great spirit. She could not know that Samantha was similarly crediting the dowager with a like admiration; tempered, of course, by Samantha's distaste for the old lady's obnoxious airs of snobbery.

With their dissections of one another's character and motives completed—much to the relief of Isabella, who had been holding her breath for so long in the charged atmosphere of the quiet room that she was beginning to feel giddy—the dowager at long last came to the point. "I have traveled here from Dorset, as you say, not planning to stop with you but only to make a brief visit before continuing on to an acquaintance of mine near Richmond. Since my grandson so feared my reaction to his plans that he felt he needs must hide them from me—stuck in the back of beyond as I am—until such time as the deed was done and my wishes in the matter were no longer worth a tinker's damn, I felt it my duty to the Royston ancestors to travel to London and assess the amount of damage Zachary has done the family escutcheon.

"So far I would be willing to say your sister, at least, has shown some sort of genteel education, so I imagine you too have been taught at least the rudiments. However, my young hoyden, your veneer of sophistication seems dangerously thin, as you do not seem to have yet mastered your temper or your tongue."

"There you go again, my lady," Samantha said on an exaggerated sigh. "And just when I was attempting to convince myself you couldn't possibly be as dreadful as you seem."

"Ha! That point goes to you, I suppose, gel. In any event, to go abroad in Society one needs both a broad back and a thick skin, figuratively of course; if those physical descriptions were actually to fit you all the poise in the world couldn't get you accepted into the
ton.
Beauty is one path of entry, as is money—as long as there is plenty of it and not a farthing of it smelling of the shop. Beauty you have, wealth you acquired through marriage to my grandson. But," she warned authoritatively, "you will not be able to conduct yourself in Society with the propriety demanded of a Royston if today's example of your volatile temper—just one of your many shortcomings—is to be used as a judge."

Samantha searched her brain wildly for a suitable set-down, but then realized any such retaliation would only confirm her to be a hotheaded nuisance who could not be trusted to behave with any consistency or ever be allowed to run tame in Society for fear she would totally disgrace herself with some impetuous word or deed. All Samantha could do (while Isabella tried vainly to disappear so as to not be witness to her sister's humiliation), was to sit and stare in stupefaction, her composure a total shambles.

The dowager recognized her advantage and decided to enlarge on her victory. "But let us not dwell only on your own consequence, my dear," she instructed Samantha. "You must also consider your husband's reputation for discretion, finesse, and all-over general air of
savoir-faire.
His standing in the
ton
is impeccable, but even one so firmly entrenched as he cannot remain unblemished if his wife continually makes herself a figure of fun."

Here the dowager directed a long, dispassionate stare in the direction of Samantha's peach lace bodice. "Trial that he may be to me, Zachary is my sole remaining grandson, and I am really quite excessively fond of him."

The dowager's last statements served to snap Samantha out of her stupor. Her ladyship had been over-anxious for a quick capitulation, and made a tactical error by underestimating her youthful adversary. Zachary St. John was the author of more scandal than she, his wife, could generate in three lifetimes, and—if it was prudent to give a thought or two to her plans for her own success in Society—it was absolutely ludicrous to believe she could do anything to St. John's reputation that he hadn't both thought of and already done to himself, twice! Samantha's Irish blood tingled in her veins as she brought up her previously bowed head, stared the dowager straight in her coal-black eyes, and drawled with heavy sarcasm: "Fond of Zachary are you, madam? Good for you. I suppose somebody should be."

Isabella had to sit on her hands to restrain the impulse to applaud Samantha's brilliant recovery.

The dowager was clearly astounded. She had assumed the match was as much the chit's idea as her grandson's. Could this girl actually be such a blockhead that she didn't appreciate the honor that had been bestowed upon her? From Samantha's mulish expression it was clear she did not. "How dare you look down your nose at the Royston name?" she fairly shrieked. "I'll have you know, missy, that—"

"Here, here, now, we can't have this," came a cheerful voice from the doorway. The Earl of Royston, once silence was restored, sauntered casually into the room to kiss first his wife's forehead, then the dowager's cheek, and lastly Isabella's trembling fingers. Aunt Loretta he chose not to disturb. "Ladies, ladies, I beg you," he continued, once he had seated himself in a chair he pulled up alongside that of his wife's (clasping her hand in a lover-like fashion that hid both her attempts to withdraw from his grasp and the tightness of his grip). "It is much too nice a day for dramatic confrontations, don't you agree? Samantha, pet, your hand is quite warm; surely you are not overdressed?" he questioned as he leered at her revealing
décolletage.

Leaving Samantha to seethe silently, mentally devising a suitably painful way of murdering her husband, St. John then favored Isabella with a flattering fulsome declaration that he had never before seen her in quite such good looks: not that she was not always a miracle of feminine perfection, but the unusually rosy flush on her cheeks—which seemed to come and go like shy rosebuds—was simply too, too enchanting.

Finally, never for an instant allowing even an inkling of his distaste for the project to be visible to the ladies, he addressed his grandmother. "I hope you and Samantha have had a comfortable chat in my absence, getting to know one another and trotting out all my past sins to cluck over as you rehash the follies committed in my misspent youth?"

"We have not had time for mawkish reminiscences, even if I could lay my mind to dredging up a past best left to lie undisturbed and unlamented. It is your wedding, an event you preferred to accomplish in my absence, that occupied our conversation this past half-hour," his grandmother contradicted bitterly. "That and an exhibition of disgraceful manners, with—most noticeably—an utter disregard for civility, my rank, and natural Christian charity displayed by your," and this last was said with a sneer, "wife."

"Samantha!" St. John admonished in mock astonishment. "Have you been a naughty puss? Pining for your darling husband, no doubt, and taking out your sour mood on our guest. For shame, Samantha."

A white-hot poker right through his gullet, Samantha decided, that's how I'll do the deed. No, she quickly adjusted, that's too quick. It must be gradual, a lingering death. Maybe a slow-acting poison in his port? she speculated gleefully.

"Your wife was not pining for your presence, grandson," the dowager put in nastily. "The total opposite is more like it. I cannot make myself understand what you can see in a willful, spoiled nursery brat with no background and even less conduct, who—besides being totally lacking in the rightful appreciation of the prestige of the St. John name—has made no pains to conceal her dislike of you personally. Look!" she commanded. "Look at the gel's face! It's a clear reflection of her feelings. She don't like you, grandson. That should be obvious, even to you. A blind man could read that face. I cannot understand why you married her."

"Lord, madam, why should you?" St. John shot back cheerfully. "Only a woman would have to ask such a question. Any man could tell you right off why I married Samantha. A blind man could see why, grandmother, provided he had not lost his sense of touch along with his eyesight."

Isabella giggled behind her gloves while Samantha discarded slow-acting poison and dredged her memory concerning racks, thumbscrews, iron maidens, and the like.

She was not the only person to be displeased by the Earl's flippant answer, but the dowager's anger took a startlingly different direction. "Go on, damn your eyes! Make a joke of everything, as usual. Life is just one long silly Drury Lane farce to you, isn't it? Even as a child you used your wits to get you out of trouble, while poor Robin—who hadn't your devious mind—was made to pay the penalty for your folly over and over again. My poor, poor Robin," the dowager lamented in a carrying voice. "He worshiped the ground you walked on, and lived only to follow your every lead—even when it meant going off to war in an attempt to match your foolish show of bravado."

"Now, Grandmother, let's not rake up old hurts. I'm sorry if my silly banter upset you, truly I am, but let us not get into a discussion about Robin today. It's my honeymoon."

But the old lady was not to be denied. As Isabella and Samantha looked on in stunned silence, the dowager rose to her imposing height and pointed a long nail accusingly at her grandson. "You killed him, you know. You and your devil-take-the-hindmost attitude, your complete arrogance, murdered my Robin."

The room was silent as each of its occupants wondered how this radical shift had come about, swinging from a discussion of Zachary's poor judgment in treating the dowager's complaints as a joke to this emotion-charged accusation of fratricide.

"Grandmother, sit down please. You're overset," St. John reasoned calmly, holding onto his temper with remarkable control—although Samantha's fingers were near to breaking as his grip on them tightened like a vise. "I thought we had this all out a year ago, when Robin was reported killed. Whether it was to follow my lead or not, Robin was army mad ever since he was out of short coats, and you know it. The second son is expected to go into the army, but I would not have bought Robin his colors if he had not pleaded, truly pleaded with me to do so. He would have gone whether I had served or not."

Slowly, insidiously, something began to grow in Samantha's breast. She had only heard Royston speak of his brother twice, but each time his face and voice had betrayed deep emotion. How dare this woman, whether she had raised them both or not, presume to find fault with Zachary's decision to fulfill his younger brother's greatest wish? And hadn't Zachary himself spent three long years risking life and limb for his country? Surely he had not laughed his way through the battle at Salamanca, or the disastrous march to the winter quarters at Ciudad Rodrigo —when a Horse Guards quartermaster's incompetence left the column without food for four long days! Samantha's father had taught her enough of the ways of war to give her a healthy admiration for anyone who served in Spain, and the dowager should be proud of her grandson.

"How dare you," she heard herself saying, as she jumped to her feet, still holding tight to Zachary's hand. "How dare you presume to belittle my husband's motives for volunteering to serve on the Peninsula? Zachary told me he was with Wellington for three years—three long, hard years—and no man does such a thing lightly. If Robin chose to admire his brother, I say he could have done worse than to emulate him by joining the army."

Isabella was weeping softly into her handkerchief now, uncaring if she was seen. St. John rose slowly and placed an arm around his wife's slim shoulders. "You need not defend me, sweetings, though I am honored that you do," he said sincerely, as he observed Samantha's high color and the agitated heaving of her bosom. "Grandmother and I have never been known to agree on anything, except perhaps our love for Robin. It is possible, knowing the true horror of war firsthand, I should have tried harder to sway Robin from his determination."

"Ah!" the dowager cried victoriously. "You admit it, then!"

"I'd admit to setting the Great Fire if it would put period to this distasteful discussion," St. John agreed dryly. "You have upset my wife, and I cannot allow you to remain here further if you will not agree to desist in your accusations." Privately, though he abhorred his grandmother's vile timing almost as much as he was sickened by her refusal to be shaken from the idea that he was responsible for Robin's death, St. John was inwardly elated by his bride's vehement defense of his honor. Perhaps she was softening towards him at last.

A flurry of movement from his grandmother signaled her gathering herself for departure, a leave-taking that he wished had been more pleasant, but he knew how slim the chance was for a reconciliation any time soon. Well, he mused, at least I can be thankful that she's a strong old curmudgeon. With her hate to feed on, she should live another twenty years just to spite me. Perhaps twenty years is soon enough to hope for some sign of forgiveness. He couldn't really say he loved his grandmother—who had had scant time for him even in his youth, showering all her love on Robin—but he did respect the woman, and he fretted about her prolonged grief over Robin's death. He could even, if pushed, have grown to love her a little now that he was a grown man, but the woman made any overtures impossible. St. John sighed, and Samantha slid one peach-and-green-clad arm about his waist.

"I'm leaving, Royston," the dowager said, "leaving and consigning you and your insolent infant bride to your fate. I had entertained the idea of handling your wife's entrance into Society, lending her my countenance as it were, but I refuse to be a part of what is sure to be the social disaster of the century. Farewell. You shall not be bothered with my presence for some time," she prophesied profoundly.

Samantha glared at her, and did not hesitate before proclaiming with great feeling, "And that, my dear madam, suits me to a cow's thumb."

"Oh, Sammy," Isabella exclaimed once the dowager had stomped from the room in high dudgeon, "how utterly famous of you to come to the Earl's defense like that. I should never have behaved so bravely. Never in my life have I been so overset by anyone as I was by the dowager. She was, er, rather unique, don't you think?"

Samantha soothed her agitated sister while St. John followed his grandmother outside, where she grudgingly allowed him to hand her up into her large, old-fashioned traveling coach. "You know, Zachary," she said at the last, "that bride of yours surely knows her way around a nice sharp dig. I don't remember the last time anyone bested me in an exchange of set-downs. She may even have prompted me to think a bit more on Robin's determination to go to war. You know, son," she whispered hoarsely, "we