Victoria and the Rogue (9 page)

Either way, Victoria was about to find out just what, in fact, her future held: for Hugo had placed her

hand upon his arm, and was steering her toward the large party gathered beneath one of the largest oaks

in Hyde Park, for a festive picnic in honor of his bride-to-be.

When Hugo had mentioned that his mother wished to hold a bridal picnic, Victoria had wondered—to

herself, of course—if the woman was not perhaps unsound in the head. But now that she approached the

series of white sheets spread out upon the grass, and saw the uniformed footmen, in their powdered wigs

and coattails, standing about with silver trays of champagne glasses and bowls of fat ripe strawberries

dipped in sugar, she saw that the word picnic, in England, meant something far different than it did back

in India. In India picnics were hardly popular affairs, thanks to the heat, the constant threat of attack by

tigers or bandits, and the throngs of impoverished beggars that gathered around the picnic blankets with

their palms stretched out and their mouths opened hungrily. Victoria had never once attended a picnic

where she did not end up giving away three quarters of her own food to the less fortunate, while her

uncles had always insisted on embarking on such outings with an armed escort of no less than twenty

men… an undertaking that made picnics in their area hardly a popular form of entertainment.

Picnics in England were obviously something else entirely, if the coolly elegant scene before Victoria was

any indication. There wasn’t a tiger in sight, let alone any armed militiamen. If there were beggars, they

certainly ventured nowhere near. And as for bandits, the closest to them Victoria could detect was

another group of well-dressed picnickers a few hundred feet away.

Hugo guided Victoria toward a pleasantly plump older woman who had laugh lines radiating from the

corners of her bright blue eyes, and a lot of very dark—surely dyed— curls peeping out from beneath

her bonnet brim.

“Mother,” Hugo said to the woman with a bow, “may I present at last my bride-to-be, Lady Victoria

Arbuthnot.” Victoria, her heart beating wildly—for all she could think was, Supposing she doesn’t like

me?—curtsied prettily and said, “So honored to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

The dowager Lady Malfrey, however, was not one to stand on ceremony, since she instantly reached

out and seized Victoria by both shoulders and pulled her in for a long—and rather tight, to Victoria’s way

of thinking— embrace.

“At last, at last!” cried the dowager Lady Malfrey. Her voice was quite childlike in its tenor and pitch. “I

have heard so much about you, Lady Victoria, I feel as if I know you already! But you are so much

prettier than anyone said. Hugo, why did you not tell me she was so very, very lovely?”

Hugo stood looking down upon them with a twinkle in his blue eyes—eyes that, Victoria saw now, he’d

inherited from his mother.

“I believe I did,” he said with a chuckle. “Did I not tell you she was fair as the evening star?”

To be compared to the evening star was, of course, a compliment beyond all compliments, and Victoria,

blushing with pleasure, thought she might actually die from joy… but first she rather hoped to extricate

herself from her future mother-in-law’s embrace, as that good woman still held on to her with a

surprisingly strong grip.

“We shall be the best of friends,” the dowager declared, her cheek very soft upon Victoria’s. “The best

of friends, I can already tell. Welcome… welcome, my child, to the family.”

While this greeting was very nice indeed, it instantly set Victoria on her guard, for she knew very well

that mothers-and daughters-in-law could never be friends. Allies, perhaps, against the men in the family,

who would inevitably muddle things with their imprudent purchases and dirty boots. But never, ever

friends. Victoria had listened as each of her ayah’s daughters wept after moving in to her husband’s

home, only to find that the mother-in-law who had insisted before their wedding that they were the best

of friends had turned around and spoken badly of her to the servants and all of her other

daughters-in-law at the earliest opportunity.

No, friends with the dowager Victoria knew she would never be. But rampaging Zulu warriors would

not have dragged the truth of this from her lips.

“How nice,” she said instead, still wishing the dowager would release her. “I never had a mother, as I’m

sure you know. At least, not one that I remember well.”

“I shall be a mother to you,” the dowager said, giving Victoria yet another rib-crunching squeeze. “A

mother and a friend!”

“That will be splendid,” Victoria said… and was able to draw breath at last when the older woman

suddenly released her.

“Oh, no, not now,” the dowager Lady Malfrey said in a sharp tone that was quite unlike the one she’d

used with Victoria. “The petit fours come after the lamb cutlets!”

Victoria turned her head and saw that the good lady was addressing one of the footmen, who was

carrying a silver platter loaded down with tiny chocolate-covered pastries… pastries that Victoria

already recognized, even after the mere two weeks she’d been in London, as being from one of the finest

bakeries in town.

While she was, of course, honored that the dowager would go to so much expense on her account,

Victoria could not help suspecting that, after her marriage, she was going to be presented with the bill for

this little party. For there were, by her count, nearly fifty guests, who would each consume half a bottle of

champagne at least (for despite the lack of sun, it was a warmish day). Then there was the cost of hiring

the footmen, not to mention the food—lamb cutlets, as Victoria knew only too well from her now-daily

consultations with the Gardiners’ cook, were not cheap—and the rental of the silverware…

Why, Victoria would not be surprised if the whole picnic ran over a hundred pounds! A hundred

pounds! And spent by a woman who supposedly didn’t have a penny to her name!

Oh, no. Victoria and her future mother-in-law were definitely not going to be friends. Not when Victoria

began what she knew was going to be the very arduous task of forcing Hugo to retrench. For even her

forty thousand pounds would not last, if this was a typical example of how the Rothschilds entertained.

“Isn’t it a lovely party?” her cousin asked her dreamily an hour or so later. Victoria, who had had her fill

of crab cakes and oysters—not to mention Lord Malfrey’s friends, who were of the hearty, backslapping

variety—had taken up her parasol and begun to stroll around the edges of the picnic area… allegedly to

walk off the effects of the champagne, but actually so that she could keep an eye on the servants, whom

she’d begun to suspect were palming the silver.

“Yes,”Victoria replied without having really heard the question. There was something amiss about the

dowager Lady Malfrey’s friends… many of them, like the dowager, had dyed hair. And their clothes

seemed… well, a bit bright. They had all been very charming to Victoria, but there was no escaping the

fact that they seemed to her to be rather… common. None of the men seemed to have employment, and

she’d fancied that several of the women were wearing face powder. And Victoria was ready to swear

that one of the younger ones had actually arrived with her skirts damp—on purpose, to make the material

cling to her admittedly well-shaped legs.

Her aunt Beatrice, Victoria knew, would have suffered apoplexy had she witnessed such a thing.

Victoria was very glad that her aunt and uncle had had a prior social commitment and could not attend

the hastily arranged picnic.

“And you know,” Rebecca prattled on, swinging her reticule gaily beside her as she strolled, “Mr.

Abbott says it’s the loveliest picnic he’s ever been to.”

Victoria did not doubt this was so. It was also most likely the costliest.

But seeing that Rebecca was so happy lifted her spirits a bit. Victoria even went so far as to congratulate

herself that it was all due entirely to her own careful planning. Charles Abbott had proved to be an

attentive and ardent suitor. More important, however, he had turned out to possess a fortune of five

thousand a year, which, while not as impressive as Jacob Carstairs’s income, was nevertheless far more

than a girl of Rebecca’s comparatively modest means could reasonably expect in a suitor. It had not been

at all difficult to convince Mr. Abbott—who, at one and twenty, was quite ready to fall in love—of her

cousin’s merits.

And it had been even easier to get Rebecca to forget all about her infatuation with a certain ship captain,

and think only of Mr. Abbott instead. For as Victoria knew very well indeed, there was nothing more

appealing to a young girl than a handsome gentleman who happens to admire her. All it took was a few

well-timed compliments and a nosegay in order for Mr. Abbott to replace Captain Carstairs in Miss

Gardiner’s heart. Her hand, Victoria was certain, would soon be his.

“The dowager,” Rebecca observed as they ambled along the edge of one of the picnic sheets, “seems a

very jolly sort.”

“Doesn’t she?” Victoria was thinking that the dowager had every reason to feel jolly… her financial

concerns were soon to evaporate entirely.

“I only hope that Charles’s mother will be as welcoming of me,” Rebecca said with a nervous

giggle—for as she and Mr. Abbott were not yet engaged, it was rather daring of her to call him by his

first name. “When the occasion arises, I mean.”

“I’m certain she will,” Victoria said warmly. “For what mother would not welcome a daughter-in-law

like you? You embroider so tidily, and I’ve never heard you raise your voice to the servants.”

Rebecca looked pleased. “I hope you’re right! But Mr. Abbott and I are not even engaged yet, so it’s

wrong of me even to think of such things. You, however… oh, Vicky, it’s like a dream, isn’t it? I mean,

the way Lord Malfrey worships you.”

Victoria had to admit that it was. For all her irritation with the Rothschilds’ friends, and the way Hugo

and his mother mismanaged their limited income—for the dowager was not alone in her profligate

spending habits; her son, too, bore some of the blame—it was difficult to stay angry with either of them.

Hugo was, of course, all that was romantic and tender, constantly reminding Victoria of how precious she

was to him, and stealing kisses whenever he was able. He’d even gone so far as to spend part of the

money he’d taken to Lisbon to retrieve his familial portraits on an engagement ring, which Victoria now

wore instead of his signet on her wedding finger. Never mind that the emerald—which Hugo had insisted

matched Victoria’s hazel eyes, a mistake for which she readily forgave him—was larger than Victoria

thought strictly tasteful. It had been a lovely gesture. And as soon as they were married, Victoria would

have the stone recut to a more modest size. And she’d have a pair of ear bobs to match!

Hugo had even managed to soothe the Gardiners’ fears concerning his impending wedding to their

headstrong niece. By becoming a familiar guest in the Gardiner household and getting to know each of

the little Gardiners by name, he had charmed Victoria’s aunt. And with his frequent gifts of cigars to

Victoria’s uncle, he had managed to win that man’s favor as well. Her aunt and uncle had given them

their blessing, and now that Hugo’s mother seemed pleased with the match as well, Victoria supposed

the only thing left to do was settle upon a date. She rather fancied getting married on a Tuesday. She had

always been fond of Tuesdays.

Victoria was planning her honeymoon in Venice—she had heard Venice was lovely—when, beside her,

Rebecca suddenly stiffened and sucked in her breath.

“I say,” Rebecca exclaimed as they reached the edge of the farthest picnic sheet. “Isn’t that… Why,

Vicky, I think… Yes, it is; it is him! What is he doing here?”

Victoria looked in the direction Rebecca was pointing. There, coming toward them from the riding path,

on a handsome bay with a nicely arched neck, was Captain Jacob Carstairs… whose name, Victoria

knew for certain, was not on the dowager Lady Malfrey’s guest list. Victoria was the one, in fact, who’d

insisted on its not being there.

“Stuff and bother,” Victoria muttered, lowering the brim of her parasol so it covered her face. It was

probably a hopeless gesture, but there was always a chance the captain hadn’t yet recognized her.

Besides, the parasol hid the blush that unaccountably—and very annoyingly—showed up on Victoria’s

cheeks every time she encountered Jacob Carstairs of late.

Which was ridiculous, because of course she was in love—deeply and irrevocably in love—with the

ninth Earl of Malfrey. Surely the only reason she happened to blush when Jacob Carstairs looked her

way had to do with the fact that the captain was so very forward. He did, after all, seem to think he knew

what was best for her—and had no compunction about telling her so.

Though she tried standing quite still—the way a rabbit, caught in the path of a cobra, often did—Jacob

Carstairs seemed to notice her just the same, since soon a pair of horse’s hooves appeared in the grass

before her, and Victoria heard Captain Carstairs say, in that infuriatingly teasing tone of his, “Good

afternoon, Lady Victoria, Miss Gardiner.”

Victoria had no choice then but to raise her parasol and smile sunnily into his insufferably smug face.