A Rival Heir (12 page)

So he said only, "I shall see what I can do about discovering Mrs. Dorsey's address. In the meantime, I should like to take you and my godmother to a concert of Italian music this Friday evening, if that would suit you. Your aunt did say that it was your decision to make."

"Oh, that would be delightful!" Nell beamed at him. "And I will do my best to see that my aunt does not fall asleep and disgrace herself."

"Excellent. Until Friday then, when I will let you know the results of my inquiries." He rose and bowed to her, taking the opportunity to observe her more closely. She was not, as his friend Hopkins had suggested the previous evening, the goddess Juno. Though tall, she was actually a little on the delicate side, with thin wrists and a tiny waist, and feet no wider than a child's. But there was so much strength and determination in her face, and forthright honesty in her eyes, that one might well judge her at first sight to resemble that Roman divinity.

Sir Hugh was accustomed to beauties who hadn't a thought in their heads, or bluestockings who had serious and weighty thoughts in theirs. Where did one place Miss Armstrong amongst this female acquaintance? She was not, certainly, of a nature similar to Emily's. He could not imagine her doing the impulsive things his sister did.

And yet he could not quite believe she was the studious, disdaining woman his godmother chose to portray. There was something elusive about Nell. She would no doubt have laughed at the idea of anyone considering her mysterious, but Sir Hugh did feel there was a great deal more to her and her situation than met the eye.

What disturbed Sir Hugh as he left her in the smaller parlor of the Queen Square house, was that she might indeed be swayed by the librarian’s attentions. Not that he knew anything against Mr. Bentley. The fellow seemed worthy enough, and Hugh suspected that he was from a good family as well. Also, one could scarcely complain of his mediocre prospects when Nell herself insisted that she had none. But Hugh wished he hadn't given his promise that he wouldn't investigate the librarian. In his mind Mr. Bentley was a far more promising subject for investigation than was Mrs. Dorsey.

And what was it Nell suspected her aunt had in mind? There was undoubtedly a logical explanation for why she hadn't gotten in touch with her old friend and correspondent. Hugh paused at the corner of Barton Street, a frown creasing his brow. If Nell took the matter seriously, it behooved him to do likewise, he supposed. His godmother might very well be intent on making trouble, and Hugh could foresee himself being the person called upon to calm whatever storm she set in motion. Knowing his godmother as he did, Hugh did not doubt that she was capable of causing a great deal of damage--if she had a mind to.

Nell had indicated that Lord Westwick figured rather prominently in his godmother's designs. And in no good fashion, either. Miss Longstreet had given his lordship the cut direct the previous evening at the assembly, despite the fact that the two were acquainted many years ago.

Sir Hugh tipped his hat to a passing acquaintance, but continued walking. His thoughts were focused on  trying to recall what he knew of the earl's history. He and Lord Westwick were by no means close, nor had the earl and Hugh's father been on more than nodding terms. Some bad blood there?

Hugh could not remember any talk of trouble. His father had never hinted at any family disagreement with Westwick or given any indication of a personal dislike. They had merely seemed to keep a certain distance, the kind of distance one kept when one had few interests in common or one seldom encountered the other. Both of which were likely in this case.

Sir Hugh believed that the earl and countess had lived the greater part of their time in Bath, rather than on their estate in Westmorland. Lord Westwick rode and hunted and maintained an admirable stable, even in town, as well as owning a horse farm not far from Bath. This last, in fact, had apparently taken the place of his estate in his affections, though his lady was not deemed to have shared his enthusiasm for horses or even for the horse farm. She had remained largely in their house in Bath, a splendid home overlooking luxurious parkland and the River Avon.

The clatter of wheels from a passing hackney recalled Hugh to his surroundings and he realized his steps had brought him to Parade Street, not far from where Lord Westwick lived. On an impulse, he made his way there, climbed to the front door and plied the brass knocker. It was only a moment before a footman answered the door and assured Sir Hugh that his master was at home.

Hugh was shown into a pleasant, sunny room elegantly furnished with divans and chairs covered in burgundy brocade, trimmed with gold tassels. It was an enchanting, whimsical room, with dancing rainbows made by a forest of crystals hung in the windows.

A voice spoke behind him. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise. How kind of you to call, Sir Hugh."

The baronet turned to see his host standing in the doorway, a warm smile on his patrician face. Hugh thought the earl looked a little peaked, as though he had perhaps not had a restful night, but that might have been his fancy.

"Lord Westwick. I beg you will forgive my intrusion, but I find I cannot be easy about my godmother's treatment of you at the assembly last night."

Lord Westwick waved him to a seat and offered a glass of sherry. When the baronet refused, he seated himself in the opposite chair. His expression, however, was not particularly encouraging. "You are not responsible for your godmother's actions, Sir Hugh. Rosemarie was a willful girl, and I suspect she has become something of a tyrant as she grows older. I do not envy Miss Armstrong her position as companion."

"Nor do I. It must be difficult indeed to accommodate one with such capricious whims and a general dislike of people."

The earl nodded, but his expression remained guarded. "You have known Miss Longstreet most of your life, I dare say, though scarcely very well. A visit every year or so to Longstreet Manor perhaps?"

"Exactly. And not at all for some years, as she seems to have taken me in aversion as well," Hugh added ruefully.

Lord Westwick’s brows rose in surprise. "Has she? But it was not in evidence last evening."

"No, since she's come to Bath, she has accorded me a modicum of cordiality—alongside her standard aspersions on everything and anything I try to do for her."

The older man looked grave. "I don't believe she's ever been to Bath before. I was astonished to learn from your sister that she was here."

"I find it odd myself."

"Well, at least it will give Margaret’s daughter a chance to see a little more of the world. Poor thing, stuck up there in Westmorland with few prospects of meeting eligible gentlemen, and none of decent entertainment, given her situation with Rosemarie Longstreet. In the old days, Rosemarie was not so sharp-tongued and displeased with everything.”

Lord Westwick fell into a musing state for a moment before shaking his head and saying in a brisker tone, “I had been meaning to consult you about one of my wishes for the horse farm, Sir Hugh. That black of yours—have you ever considered putting him to stud?"

They moved easily into a discussion of horses and said no more on the subject of Miss Longstreet. Before taking his leave, Hugh’s glance strayed once again to the crystal display.

Westwick smiled. “You’re fascinated by all the sun catchers, eh? They were my wife’s idea. A pretty notion, what?”

"It's a charming room. She must have been a very clever woman."

The earl nodded. His eyes focused on one of the crystals, but his thoughts seemed elsewhere. "She was amazing. Whimsical, funny, overflowing with enthusiasm. I had thought to marry a solid country miss, someone of good family, sensible, correct. And then I met Sophie. She changed my life," he said simply.

"You were a lucky man."

"I only wish my luck had held out and that she'd outlived me." Lord Westwick made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Never mind me. I get a bit maudlin when I'm talking about Sophie. Can't seem to get over her death the way people expect me to."

"Why should you? Pay no attention to the busybodies," Hugh urged, but he was feeling a little out of his depth.

"The minute you put off your black bands, they think you're ready to rejoin society with a vengeance, as though nothing has happened," Lord Westwick said. "In fact there were those who urged me to parties even before the year was out, saying I would miss a good time all on account of such strict observance. Bah! What do they know?"

When Hugh was once again outside on the pavement, he shook his head ruefully. He had learned nothing about why the earl might be a target for Miss Longstreet’s mischief, and he certainly hadn’t been able to warn the older man of any danger from that quarter. Hugh would have felt a fool offering such advice to a man who had known his godmother when she was a young woman. It all seemed so unlikely when you stood in that rainbow-filled room, chatting comfortably with an elegant peer of the realm.

Had Miss Armstrong got it all wrong?

Chapter Eight

Nell attempted to forestall a visit from Mr. Bentley by visiting the circulating library on Milsom Street. She carried with her the books that Aunt Longstreet had refused ("a lot of senseless drivel") or completed ("Now there's a fellow who knows how to describe an historic event"). She herself had read the novel the librarian had recommended, and though she would dearly have loved to discuss it, Emily had yet to return to collect it from her.

It had not occurred to her to suggest that Aunt Longstreet read it. Her aunt had no interest in fiction ("It's all lies, isn't it?"), and in fact had taunted Nell when she sat engrossed in
Mansfield
Park
. Nell had little difficulty ignoring her aunt's barbed comments, but when Aunt Longstreet asked what the novel was about, Nell had been a little reluctant to describe the situation. When she had finished the book and closed the last volume with a sigh, her aunt had looked up sharply and said, "I hope that book hasn't given you any romantical notions, Helen."

Nell climbed the stairs to the circulating library with her usual purposeful step, tucking the basket in close to her body so it wouldn't scrape against the walls. She had taken to studying the women she encountered around town, noting their manner of dress and the way in which they wore their hair. It was her intention, on this occasion, to also glance through some of the periodicals about fashion which the library was certain to carry. Nell had come to believe that she must either look hopelessly provincial, or uncommonly dowdy, to those more versed in the current styles.

The moment she stepped into the large, bright room Mr. Bentley looked up from his work, as though he sensed her presence. His welcoming smile sat a little uncomfortably on his serious face, but there was no doubt that he was pleased to see her.

Nell walked directly to the desk, where she returned his greeting with a cautious one of her own. There were half a dozen patrons in the room, none of whom had paid the least attention to her arrival. Mr. Bentley quizzed her on each book as she lifted it from her basket.

"You haven't brought back the novel?" he asked, surprised.

"No. I finished it two days ago, and loved every word, but I promised Mrs. Holmsly that I would lend it to her.  You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all. She is welcome to it. I'll just make a notation..." He pulled a piece of paper over and jotted down a few words. "Can I help you find something today, Miss Armstrong? Perhaps other novels by the same lady?"

"Oh, do you have one? How wonderful. And, Mr. Bentley, I would like to look at some magazines of fashions for ladies, if you would be so good as to point me to them."

"Fashion?" His tone of voice suggested that he could not quite approve of such a choice, but he nonetheless indicated two wooden racks on the north side of the room. "You'll find
La Belle Assemblée
and
Le Beau Monde
over there. The current issues may be with one of the patrons, but they don't circulate, so the older issues will certainly be there."

"Thank you." Nell smiled briefly and crossed to the area he'd indicated. She was quite delighted to find a whole stack of journals. Flipping through the first one to come to hand, she almost gasped at the elegance of the gowns and the modishness of the toilettes of the women. The descriptions of the fabrics, too, intrigued her, for she found that they were almost entirely light materials, muslins and satins.

Nell's own gowns were made of heavier, sturdier materials, but she had been aware, from the first moment of arriving in Bath, that she was certainly not in the majority. Even before the warmer weather of summer came, all the women about her seemed to be dressed in fabrics which might better have graced the hottest day of July!

Nell had thought it very strange of them, and had wondered if perhaps Bath had been enjoying an especially warm spell just prior to her arrival. But no, these light, gauzy fabrics were what ladies wore throughout the year, apparently. How very odd of them.

Nell determined on the spot to have one made for herself.

Perusing the most recent issues, she chose exactly what she wanted, a high-waisted, full-sleeved sprigged muslin with a mint green trim at the wrists and neck. How very charming, she thought. I shall feel like the goddess of spring!

Knowing that any modiste worth her salt would be able to duplicate the gown, Nell made a note of the issue and description as reference. It did occur to her that the modistes in a town like Bath might be very dear, but she was determined to have the dress. With no effort at all, she could picture herself walking down a country lane wearing the sprigged muslin, flowering plums in bloom on either side of her, wearing slippers of green to match the gown. Oh, there would be birdsong, and sunshine, and the smell of newly turned earth.

And perhaps there would be a young man with her. Someone dressed in the first stare of fashion, very much in accord with her own appearance. (Mr. Bentley dressed respectably, but certainly not at all fashionably.) Her escort (who once again looked suspiciously like Sir Hugh) would pick a newly unfurled blossom for her as they paused by a stile. (Nell was particularly fond of picturing stiles, as one was often handed over them by one's companion.)