A Lady's Point of View (23 page)

Bryn: Now here’s the sort of
woman I ought to marry. Polite, even though she does smile as if her teeth pain
her. Tepid sort of fish, I suppose, but ain’t that what a wife’s supposed to
be?

As she ushered her visitors to
their seats, and thankfully bade farewell to the duchess’s party, it occurred
to Cynthia that she had best guard her step. One could not tell what the
marquis intended by this visit. It would not do to favour him too markedly;
Edward, being rid of his onetime inamorata, might still prove a good prospect.
She decided not to mention Angela’s engagement to Sir Manfred. Why risk
provoking Mr. Cockerell?

“Lord Bryn, I cannot tell you how
honoured I am to be among the first to welcome you to town.” She adopted her
sweetest tone as she offered the callers refreshments, and sank gracefully onto
a chair, without bothering to introduce her elderly, dozing companion.

“Thank you,” he said. The man was
even handsomer than she remembered, with his dark, brooding eyes and
aristocratic face. But lacking in conversation.

“What brings you to London?” she
chirped. “The balls, perhaps, or the Opera? They’ve rebuilt it, you know, and
it’s simply splendid.”

“His lordship is here on
business,” said Edward. “I say, are you attending the Linleys’ ball tomorrow
night?”

“Oh, yes, indeed.” Cynthia smiled
brightly at both gentlemen, wishing Lord Bryn would exert himself a trifle
more. “I’m told everyone will be there, though I can’t imagine why.”

The marquis regarded her
quizzically. “Why should they not?”

The countess loved to gossip,
particularly about people she disliked. “I daresay you’ve missed the uproar
earlier this season, that nodcock Miss Linley snubbing Beau Brummell, and then
claiming she didn’t see him.”

Bryn merely grunted. She took
this as encouragement.

“Then Edward was kind enough to
sponsor the sister, but she’s a milk-and-water sort of miss, and not worthy of
him,” Lady Darnet rattled on. “Also, everyone knows they’re down in the pocket.
I’ve heard that Lady Mary was seen selling her emeralds to a jeweller in
Clerkenwell. Can you imagine, financing a ball with one’s last penny?”

Andrew was finding this
conversation distasteful. He had endeavoured, since the previous evening, to
harden his heart against Meg Linley, and that task was made more difficult by
the news of her family’s financial straits. Perhaps she would be forced into
the role of a governess, after all, and then some other man might find himself
falling in love with the sprite who brought magic to his household.

Moreover, he retained an intense
dislike of frivolous tattle. Even now, men were fighting and dying on the
Continent, to protect the safety of self-satisfied windbags like Lady Darnet.

Perhaps he was being unfair. The
lady had no doubt been raised to believe that drawing-room conversation must be
kept light and general. She was only performing her obligations as a hostess.

Beside him, Edward glowered as if
he too were displeased. At least one need not worry that he harbored tender
sentiments toward the widow.

Cynthia wasn’t entirely a fool,
and she guessed that her comments about the Linleys had fallen upon less than
sympathetic ears. Hastening to explain, she added, “Not that I take joy in
someone else’s misfortune, but I cannot bear pretence. Do they mean to trick
the rest of us by putting on a gala affair? Perhaps they think to lure some
wealthy husbands.”

Both men grimaced. In Edward’s
case, one could understand that, but what about the marquis? Cynthia wracked
her brain to think of some connexion between Lord Bryn and the Linleys, but
failed utterly.

When he spoke again, it was on
another topic entirely. “How do you feel about life in the country, Lady
Darnet?”

On the verge of blurting that she
despised rustication, she paused. Could the marquis be referring to his own
situation? She’d come close to ruining her chances!

“It would depend on one’s
companions,” she said, silently vowing that five minutes after marrying the man,
she would insist on spending the season each year in London.

“A cautious reply,” he said.

“It would be dishonest of me to
pretend I’ve spent much time away from town.” Cynthia dimpled coyly. “I can
only judge from a house party or two, and on that basis, I must say that it is
one’s company which determines everything.”

“You don’t like to ride?”

The countess despised horses.
“One must ride, for how else can one show off one’s riding costume?” She
laughed, pleased at how well she’d avoided an outright lie.

A short time later, after her
visitors departed, the widow reviewed her conversation, concluded that she had
conducted herself well, and began planning her next step. She’d surmised that
the two men would attend the Linleys’ ball. Well, so would she, and in her
exceedingly low-necked new gown, she would set Lord Bryn’s head spinning as she
whirled in his arms.

Whoever had invented the waltz
must have had Cynthia Darnet in mind.

When Edward Cockerell informed
his sister at the breakfast table that Lord Bryn would accompany them that
night, she immediately saw two possibilities. The first was complete disaster.
Between her brother and the marquis, Angela and Meg Linley would both be
reduced to tears and humiliated in front of society. The second possibility was
a triumph of the first order. Love would somehow find a way, and everyone would
live happily ever after.

Helen advised Edward that if he
created any trouble, she would personally tie him to the tail of a runaway
horse.

“I have no intention of creating
a disturbance,” he snapped, offended. “May I point out that I am not the member
of the family who has a talent for getting us into scrapes?”

Helen was on the point of
retorting when cousin Rachel trounced in, her wispy hair stuck atop her head in
a disordered imitation of her elders’ coiffures.

“Go right back upstairs and have
Agnes brush out your hair,” Helen commanded.

“I’m tired of being treated as a
child! I’m almost thirteen.”

“Don’t pout, Rachel.” Edward
glared over the rim of his coffee cup. “Do as your cousin says.”

“I’m going to ask Mama!” The
child stomped back through the house.

“You see what an example you set
for her?” Edward took advantage of the situation to point out. “Always
insisting upon having your way. A woman should allow herself to be guided by
her guardian.”

“Oh, indeed?” returned Helen.
“I’m to bat my eyes and flirt like Lady Darnet, am I? A splendid example of the
fair sex she is, that hypocritical schemer.”

“Your language!” Her brother
seemed shocked.

“Never mind.” She realised she’d
strayed onto the wrong path. “I want your guarantee that neither you nor Lord
Bryn will embarrass Angela or Meg.”

“One can hardly make such a vow
on behalf of someone else, can one?” Edward snorted. “Particularly a marquis.
You’d do better to try to engage his affections for yourself, my dear. Two
seasons, and you haven’t yet made a match.”

“I have my share of admirers,”
said Helen, which was true. She’d refused two offers of marriage that same
month, as her brother well knew. She preferred to enjoy her freedom as long as
possible. “Well, you can tell Lord Bryn for me that if he harms either of my
friends, I’ll tie
him
to the tail of a horse and smack it hard enough to
bolt.”

“I shall do no such thing.” Her brother rose from
the table and departed, just as Aunt Emily entered with a much-abashed Rachel
and her gleeful younger brother, Teddy, in tow.

Helen spent the afternoon
closeted in her private rooms with the émigré hairdresser Pierre Lebeau. She
was doubly grateful for his services, since they gave her an excuse to avoid
seeing Cynthia Darnet when she paid an unexpected visit.

The two women had never felt
anything for each other beyond a mild dislike, but the countess refused to let
that hinder her in any way. She had called upon Helen in the hopes of
encountering Lord Bryn again, and perhaps drawing from him in advance the
request for a dance that evening. He hadn’t yet seen the current crop of
unmarried girls, and Cynthia intended to do everything in her power to secure
him for herself.

Standing in the hallway awaiting
word as to whether Miss Cockerell was at home, Lady Darnet espied a young girl
peeping at her from around a corner. She had no fondness for children, but the
creature’s open admiration stayed a sharp rebuff.

“I’m Rachel,” said the girl.
“You’re Lady Darnet, aren’t you?”

“As you just heard me inform the
butler.” In fairness, she had to admit the chit possessed excellent features
and clear, youthful skin. In a few years she’d be the centre of attention, and
Cynthia begrudged her every whit of it.

“I want to look like you.”
Unexpectedly, a sullen expression crossed the young face. “My cousins Edward
and Helen are always telling me I’m too young. Why, this very morning—”

“Did Lord Bryn breakfast with
you?” Lady Darnet dared to ask.

“No, but they were talking about
him.” Rachel scraped one toe along the parquet floor. “They don’t know that I
read the letter.”

“What letter?” This conversation
was proving more interesting than Cynthia had expected, and she glanced
worriedly up the staircase for fear the butler would return too soon.

“The one Miss Linley wrote.”
Rachel could contain herself no longer. “What a lark that was! She pretended to
be a governess and went to live with Lord Bryn, and when he found out, what a
great fuss he made! Isn’t that splendid? They’d simply die if they knew I’d
read it.”

“Then we shan’t tell anyone,
shall we?” said Lady Darnet, and as soon as the butler conveyed Miss
Cockerell’s apologies, she went away more than satisfied with the results of
her visit.

What a worthwhile call this had
been! Precisely what use she would make of this information, Cynthia didn’t yet
know, but she had no doubt it would serve her well.

Helen set out that evening with
considerable misgivings. As for the two gentleman accompanying her, she could
cheerfully have strangled them both.

Lord Bryn appeared as devilish
and dour as she had feared, and Edward wore the peevish expression of a young
boy forced to attend the funeral of an elderly relative. How two of the most
beautiful and sweet-tempered women in the world could have fallen in love with
this pair of coal-hearts was more than Helen could fathom.

Angela was, at that moment,
thinking much the same thing as she applied a light dusting of powder to remove
the shine from her unblemished skin. She had felt both hope and distress upon
learning the previous day that Edward would be attending. Surely he was only
yielding to his sibling’s insistence. The possibility of a reconciliation was,
she knew, extremely small.

Angela had concentrated that week
on the increasingly difficult task of exhibiting pleasantness toward Sir
Manfred, who visited daily and showered her with damp kisses. Carefully she
sidestepped his requests to set a date for the wedding, with the excuse that
they must wait until after the ball.

As for Meg, she walked through
the days like a person asleep. Obediently she ran errands to the florist’s shop
and the milliner’s, supervised the placement of potted ferns and the arranging
of candles, and purchased violet ribbons and Irish lace to retrim a lavender
gown of Helen’s.

All the while, she tried to grasp
the enormity of the catastrophe that had descended upon them. Her own
unhappiness was bearable; had she not previously resigned herself to the
unmarried state? But she could scarcely bear to see her dear sister assume an
air of passive acceptance whenever Sir Manfred came to call.

Briefly Meg wondered if she
hadn’t best set fire to his coat, or otherwise offend him so grievously that he
would stalk out of their lives. And so she might have done, in a fit of
sisterly love, had it not been for the strain so apparent on Lady Mary’s
countenance.

The emeralds had been a family
heirloom, passed down from her mother and grandmother. To sell them had been to
tear out a piece of her soul. Mary had prided herself since childhood on her
ability to manage well, regardless of the circumstances. This talent had stood
her in good stead after the death of her husband. Then had come the biggest
decision of her life. Should she remain peacefully and solvently in Derby, or
gamble her life’s savings on her daughters’ futures?

She’d taken the risk, and had
never regretted it until now. Despite her apparent indifference to Angela’s
feelings, Lady Mary was well aware that her daughter was making a woman’s
supreme sacrifice.

So she smiled upon Sir Manfred,
who daily grew more odious in his patting and pawing of Angela, and ordered up
an elegant midnight supper for the ball. Their guests, all unknowing, would be,
in effect, consuming the Linleys’ dreams.

The ballroom in their rented
house was scarcely large enough for the purpose, but fortunately a mad crush
was considered a sign of success, so Lady Mary didn’t worry overmuch on that
score. It was unfashionably located on the ground floor, but there was nothing
to be done about that, either. Aired, dusted, and decked with flowers, it would
have to do.

As was her custom, Lady Mary
dressed in black. The twilled sarcenet had served her for two seasons and,
despite the snagged edges of the sleeves and hem, would have to suffice again
tonight.

She glowed with pride at the
sight of her two girls descending the staircase, Angela blonde and pale in
light green crepe, Meg stunning in lavender silk. Although it still seemed odd
to see her wearing spectacles, it did come as a great relief that she no longer
stumbled and squinted.