A Lady in Name (3 page)

Lord Pennington pulled out a chair facing the window and Lucy sat down, looking out upon pleasant grounds that gave at this angle no hint of the vast acres through which she had just been driven.
Nevertheless, she felt a trifle dazed and was glad of the offered respite. Feeling she had something to make up for, Lucy turned to say so, and discovered she was alone.

A sense of ill-usage could not but creep upon her.
His lordship, having ousted her from The Boar without so much as a by-your-leave and virtually forced her to accompany him here, had delivered her to a place of his own choosing and summarily abandoned her. Lord Pennington, Lucy decided, stood in crying need of a sharp set-down.

* * *

Having divested himself of his hat, gloves and greatcoat, Stefan mounted the great staircase at an easy lope, rapidly reviewing his options. He’d had ample time to regret the momentary compassion which had decided him to bring the Graydene female to this house. It had not taken him long to realise he had been foolhardy, but he was not the man to draw back upon an impulse. Life was to be lived, and a risk or two added spice.

He admitted an unwelcome qualm on discovering his cousin was in the house.
Paulina was bound to kick up a dust. She could never be brought to believe in her parent’s insalubrious habits. How she could have lived for the better part of her life with Beves Ankerville and not known about the man’s peccadilloes was a mystery. Unless Paulina chose to stick her head in the sand? He had a fair notion how she would react should he present her with a female claiming to be her natural half-sister.

A curst nuisance she should have chosen today to visit her erstwhile home.
Which brought to mind a further grievance. Paulina seemed not to realise she was now a visitor. Her frequent comings and goings were an irritant, more for Dion than himself, it must be admitted, his sister being obliged to listen to the veiled criticisms that fell from the creature’s lips upon every change effected in the mansion. And Dion who would bear the brunt, if Paulina knew about Miss Graydene.

On all counts, Stefan decided, as he crossed the gallery and approached the door to one of the larger of the upstairs reception rooms, it would be better to keep the matter under wraps until Paulina had left the house.

The Red Saloon, so called on account of the once vibrant brocade upholstery, boasted two great sofas set either side of the hearth, where a cheerful fire burned merrily. One was occupied by Dion, most improperly reclining with her legs stretched out. The other was mostly taken up by Paulina, who had camped her currently overlarge frame bang in its centre. Hovering between them was his mother, her attitude decidedly uncertain. Before Stefan could open his mouth, the Honourable Mrs Ankerville accosted him.

‘What is one to do, Stefanus?’ she exclaimed, without the slightest preliminary.
‘I say nothing of Dionisia, who seems to have no notion of correct conduct, but here is your cousin, who must have a perfectly good sofa of her own, taking up enough space for two.’

‘She is two, Mama,’ piped up Dion, rolling her eyes at Stefan in her usual fashion from under the blonde frizz framing her pixie face.
‘Not that I expect you to have noticed, but poor Paulina is increasing.’

Stefan was not surprised to see his mother turn an enquiring eye upon her
niece. ‘What, again? Dear me. Well, if you must, you must, I suppose.’

‘It is hardly my blame, Aunt Corisande,’ said the visitor snappily, smoothing a restless hand over the large mound beneath her silken gown.

But Mrs Ankerville was not attending. ‘Stefanus, if Paulina is set upon having incessant babies, you must purchase another sofa, or I will have to refrain from coming down.’

‘You hardly ever do, Mama,’ Stefan retorted, strolling forward and ignoring both his sister’s stifled giggle and Paulina’s glare.
‘What can have brought you from your eyrie? Have you run out of ink again?’

‘Paper!
There is no paper in this house.’

Stefan met her as she came out from between the sofas, and dropped a careless kiss on the riot of burnished curls, as yet untouched by grey, tumbling untidily over her shoulders.

‘I will find you some presently.’ Putting his mother from him, he turned his most practised smile upon his cousin. ‘Pay no heed to Mama, cousin. You must understand that infants, like everything else unconnected with medieval legend, are a burdensome inconvenience to one of Corisande’s artistic temperament.’

‘Now that is simply not true,’ said his mother, returning to Dion’s sofa and seating herself
—without the least difficulty—in the space between her daughter’s feet and its rolled end. ‘I doted upon the two of you.’

‘For about five minutes each day,’ said Dion, entirely without rancour.

Neither of them, Stefan reflected, bore Corisande the least grudge for having largely ignored her offspring. There were benefits to be had in owning a creature so scatterbrained as to give her children their heads because her own was so firmly entrenched in the study and compilation of poetic works relating to an age of courtly knights, legendary dragons and damsels in distress.

‘It is a heresy,’ stated Mrs Ankerville, ‘and in another age, my love, you would have been
—’

‘
—burned at the stake,’ finished Stefan in unison with his sister.

‘If I had a guinea for every time I have been threatened with that fate,’ added Dion, ‘I should be dowered
well enough to catch a marquis.’

‘Why should you want one?’ objected her mother.
‘Your duties would leave you not a moment to yourself. You had much better look lower.’

‘Oh, yes.
Sir Beauregarde de Fontaineville or some such fanciful person, I presume.’

‘As far as I know, there is no such person.’

‘And you would certainly know if there was,’ put in Stefan, eager to promote this harmless theme until he should be alone with his sister.

‘If I were you, Dionisia,’ continued Mrs Ankerville as if he had not spoken, ‘I should look about me for a knight possessed of all the noble qualities that
—’

‘Is it not for you to find a suitable parti for my cousin, ma’am?’ interrupted Paulina, acid in her tone.

Not much to Stefan’s surprise, Mrs Ankerville stared at his cousin as if she was an unidentified monk responsible for an error in an ancient manuscript.

‘What in heaven’s name can I do in the matter?
Even had I the time, Dionisia would never allow me to interfere. Besides, one cannot dictate upon the subject of love. All the great romances demonstrate just how unpredictable—’

‘Now look what you’ve done,
’ Dion broke in over the top of her mother’s discourse, looking accusingly across at Paulina. ‘She won’t stop now.’

‘
—and even when it comes to dragon slaying, there is no rhyme or reason to tell us why one hero rather than another will put his whole life at risk for the sake of—’

‘Mama!’

Mrs Ankerville broke off, and looked enquiringly at her son. ‘What is it, Stefanus?’

He grinned at her, crossing to a desk set into an alcove next to the fireplace.
‘Have you forgotten you were in need of paper?’ Pulling open a drawer, he drew out a sheaf and held it up. ‘A secret stash.’

His mother jumped up, crossing quickly to hi
m. ‘Stefanus, you are a genius. Now I can get on again.’

Stefan watched her retreat busily from the room, the precious paper clutched to her bosom.
Then he moved to warm his coat-tails by the fire, laying one arm along the mantelpiece, and turning his attention to Paulina.

‘And to what do we owe the honour of this particular visit, cousin?’

He almost winced as Lady Sarclet let out one of her breathless laughs. Stefan knew it for a signal of embarrassment but it never failed to irritate.

‘Do I need a reason?
We are family, Stefan, and Pennington Manor is, after all, my ancestral home.’

‘And you live so close, don’t you?’

He doubted whether Paulina caught the acidity, for she merely simpered. ‘So fortunate, as I have frequently had occasion to observe to Sarclet.’

‘Fortunate for whom?’

‘Stefan!’

His sister’s reproof was productive of nothing more than a strong desire in Stefan to build upon what he had started.
But Dion made haste to change the subject.

‘Paulina was bewailing the change of paintings in the main hall, Stefan.
She thinks we would have done better to have kept the ancestral portraits there, instead of exchanging them for those classical pieces.’

His cousin leapt
on the theme before Stefan could respond. ‘Not that I mean to criticise your taste, Stefan, but Papa always felt it appropriate to honour the earldom’s line.’

‘Did he?
Well, if my uncle chose to tolerate that gloomy crew glaring down at him, that is his affair. I couldn’t wait to be rid of them.’

Lady Sarclet’s cheeks flew colour, much to Stefan’s satisfaction, and she surged to her feet, her belly protruding before her.
‘I fear I must take my leave of you, Dion.’

He received a reproachful look from Dion, who threw her legs to the floor and jumped up to kiss Paulina’s cheek.
No mean feat, considering the huge mound she must circumvent. A stir of remorse moved him to offer his hand.

‘You must forgive me, cousin.
I have been on an errand this morning, which has put me a trifle out of temper.’

Paulina’s clasp was weak as she accepted the proffered olive branch, but Stefan noted uncertainty in her hazel eyes.

‘I hope nothing too disturbing?’

He shrugged.
‘That is yet to be seen.’ Now why was she eyeing him? Suspicion?

‘Not to do with …’

Stefan frowned as her lips clamped shut and she turned to follow Dion to the door. A brief glance back, and a mutter which might have been farewell, and she was gone. Stefan was abruptly suspicious that she was not as ignorant of her father’s activities as he had supposed.

Dion closed the door and turned to look at him.
Stefan raised his brows. ‘A dark horse, do you think?’

His sister gave her characteristic little gurgle of a laugh.
‘Paulina? I’m afraid not, brother dear. Why, do you think she suspects anything of Uncle Beves’s naughtiness?’

‘If she does not, I’m afraid she’s in for a shock,’ he responded grimly.

Dion’s expressive face registered instant comprehension. ‘Then you did find out something to his detriment.’ She came quickly towards him, a frown creasing her brow. ‘What was it sent you out then? You wouldn’t tell me at breakfast.’

Stefan threw himself into the sofa vacated by his cousin.
‘Because I hoped it would prove to be a hum.’

‘And it didn’t?’

He sighed. ‘Far from it, I suspect.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Dion, perching opposite him in an attitude of birdlike attention, her bright eyes fixed upon his face.
‘Tell, brother dear. I can see you want to.’

‘I don’t, but since I’ve brought the girl with me, I don’t see I have an option.’

Dion’s eyes widened. ‘A girl? And you’ve brought her here? Gracious, Stefan, have you run mad? Who is she?’

He blew out an unquiet breath.
‘A Miss Lucinda Graydene. It appears she is our uncle’s illegitimate daughter.’

* * *

The repast set before Lucy ought to have whetted her appetite, but she was too anxious to partake of more than a mouthful of cold meat, half a slice of buttered bread and a tempting portion of plum cake, though its moist crumbs stuck in her throat. But the tea was welcome and revivifying, and she absently took a second cup as the minutes ticked by.

Had she been forgotten?
Or, if remembered, was she the subject of altercation and alarm in the household? A lowering thought, and one that set her to thinking of escape. But the prospect of setting out on a lonely path to trudge miles back to Withington village made her shudder. Better to wait for Lord Pennington and insist upon his returning her there forthwith.

His lordship, however, did not arrive, and the call of nature began to impinge upon Lucy’s senses.
In a bid to take her mind off it, she rose and went to the window, inspecting the grounds beyond the glass. An expanse of lawn ended in a border of hedging, cutting off the view at the corner of the house, which offered a narrowed vista of distant trees and a gleam of water. The nearer prospect boasted a round bed of winter greenery with a still fountain at its centre. Scarcely enough to hold her interest.

Was she to wait upon Lord Pennington’s convenience forever?
Turning to face the room, her glance swept the door and found it unresponsive. A fleeting image of his lordship’s entrance into the parlour at the inn pricked Lucy into action. She would not be subject to the creature’s arrogant whim for one moment longer.

Marching to the door, she opened it and thrust through into the long room beyond.
No sound penetrated from the further door, so she pressed on and emerged onto the chequered floor. Breathing a sigh of relief, Lucy looked around in hopes of seeing some menial who might direct her steps. Instead she caught sight of a female of obvious gentility slowly descending the stairs, and accompanied by a maid upon whom she leaned for support. The reason for her caution was at once evident in the protrusion below the bosom of her black silk gown, but Lucy had barely taken in her condition when the woman saw her and halted midway down the flight.