A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (19 page)

• • •

The morning sun still shone by the time Ellie got back to the bedroom she shared with Claire. Peggity must have snuggled in while Ellie was out on the moors. Both sisters peered over the blankets as Ellie dragged herself through the door, her dress undone and shawl carelessly wrapped about her shoulders.

“La, Ellie,” Peggity said. “You look as if you’ve marched through a hurricane, been attacked by bees, and fallen down a mountain side. Get in bed before that weighty look on your face breaks the floorboards.”

Claire made room. Ellie tossed herself onto the mattress, landing like a sack of rocks.

“You’re queer as Dick’s hatband,” Peggity said, feeling Ellie’s forehead. “Is it Lord Davenport?”

“Please, say no more … something terrible has happened.”

Claire sat up. “If it concerns the family, you must tell us at once.”

Ellie gripped her sides and rocked with despair. “I love him, and he loves Toby.”

“But you are Toby,” Claire soothed. “Ergo, he loves you.”

“He hates me. He hates all of us. He thinks we’re silly snobs.”

“Well, if there’s a snob among us, it’s he,” Peggity said indignantly. “We don’t cut the person sitting next to us at dinner, and we certainly don’t slither away from conversation as he does, the haughty young blood of the Fancy.”

“Yes,” Ellie sighed, “but you should meet him when he’s with horses. He’s a completely different man — kind, full of good humor, wonderful. This morning he pulled me off Manifesto and let the horse run. He did that for a stable girl. How can Ellie compete with that?”

Claire put a hand across Ellie’s mouth. “Hush,” she whispered. “Someone’s at the door.”

The girls yanked the covers to their chins and froze.

“Come in,” Peggity commanded. They heard a whimper and a scratch.

Claire jumped from the bed. “It’s Sport. He’s grown fond of his morning walk.” She opened the door and the dog scampered in, his little behind wagging – a spaniel smile on his face.

“Pardon me. Terribly sorry.” Flavian appeared at the door, and then backed away swiftly when he saw the girls were still in their nightgowns.

“Lord Monroe!” Claire squeaked, trying to cover her shift with two small hands. Flavian turned his back on them. “Forgive me, ladies. Sport woke me for his walk and led me to your door. I thought you were dressed.”

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll join you,” Claire told him. “Sport, you go with Lord Monroe.”

Still averting his gaze, Flavian called, “Come spaniel, it’s walk time.” The dog started to trot out, then yelped and darted back in the room as Poultney Bigalow barged through the door.

“Hide me!” he whispered frantically. “She’s coming.” Seeing the gap on the side of the bed that Claire had vacated, he dove under the covers and squeezed against Peggity.

“Out!” Peggity shrieked. Consumed in shocked laughter, Ellie tried to help her sister shove Poultney’s doughy figure from the bed.

“Lord Bigalow, my little quarry, where have you disappeared?” called Rosemarie Philapot. All motion stopped. Even Sport watched the door.

“Help!” Poultney’s muffled voice pleaded.

Claire dashed across the room, threw herself into the bed, and pulled the covers up. Poultney’s outsized lump remained obvious.

Flavian hissed, “Put your knees up.”

“Miss Claire,” Flavian said in a loud stagey voice, “I will be happy to accompany you on Sport’s … ”

“Lord Bigalow, are you in here?” Rosemary poked her freckled face and mass of red curls into the room. She surveyed the bed with suspicion.

“We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, Miss Philapot,” Ellie told her.

“I could have sworn I heard a disturbance in here,” Rosemary said.

Flavian tipped his head, and gallantly declared, “You must have heard me apologizing to the ladies. Sport here wants walking and I accidently came upon Miss Claire in a state of semi-undress.”

“I see,” said Rosemarie, not moving. Her wary eyes searched each face.

Footsteps were heard hurrying down the corridor. “Miss Philapot,” Ellie heard Algie cry, “I think I’ve spied Lord Bigalow in the garden.”

Rosemary turned. “Where?”

“By the fountain — the one with the water nymph. I’ll take you to him.”

Rosemary disappeared into the hall, “Don’t let him get away.”

Poultney popped up amidst the girls. “You have spared my life. Ask anything of me. Your wish is my command.”

“Mr. Bigalow, you are breaking every possible rule of etiquette,” Flavian remonstrated. “If someone should see you in bed with these young ladies, the consequences would be terrible.”

“Quite so, my friend. Close the door, would you?”

Outrage consumed Flavian’s fine features.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Poultney sputtered. “I have a stewing caldron of sisters back home. Believe me, young ladies are a lot less scandalized than they pretend to be.”

Claire sighed. With the tiniest nod of her head, she gave Flavian permission to shut the door and stay.

Peggity pulled the blanket around her shoulders. “Lord Bigalow, I think you owe us an explanation.”

“Quite right. Well, Miss Philapot believes herself in love with me. Last night she stuffed my room with sprigs of rosemary. Nasty stuff. Little bugs crawling all about, and I’m allergic. The servants had to sweep the room clean and change the bed linens. It took hours to air the place out.”

“How ghastly,” Peggity said.

“Now for our next question,” Ellie interrupted. “Tell us what sort of man Lord Davenport is.”

“Capitol fellow. There isn’t a nicer, more generous, soul in England.”

“Maybe to you, but certainly not to us,” Peggity replied. “Why does he despise us so?”

“Gad, my charming femme fatales, Hugh Davenport doesn’t dislike you. He dislikes all high-born women.”

“But why?” Ellie cried.

“First of all, he’s a massively good-looking fellow with a fortune and family connections. At Eton he couldn’t cross High Street without some damsel hurling herself at him.

“And then a high-born baggage accused him of proposing marriage. It was a massive set up, but he refused to fall for the ruse.

“That escapade was followed by an invitation to join my family in Brighton. Isabella is my particularly beautiful, vain, self-centered, bad-tempered sister. Hugh took one peep at the wench and fell head over heels. Mooned about her like a hungry hound.

“Enter one Captain Huxley Barton of the 33rd Artillery Regiment — dashing rake with a red coat and spiffy boots. Isabella lures him into her net, too.

“In his usual subtle manner, Hugh confronts Isabella, which ruffles her plumage. She sics my other three sisters on him. They spend a few weeks doing mean things. Awful stuff. He’s humiliated, confused, upset. Back to confronting Isabella, who culminates her misdeeds by smacking Hugh square across the face. A ring I gave her for her sixteenth birthday cut his cheekbone. And the scar isn’t half the damage that flock of geese did to him that summer. Hugh hasn’t trusted a pedigreed member of the ‘gentler sex’ since.”

“Poor Lord Davenport,” Claire sighed.

“Poor Lord Davenport, indeed,” Poultney agreed. “And poor Isabella. Lady Davenport learned of the damage to her cub and she banned my sister from Almack’s — destroyed Isabella’s chances with every bachelor in England.”

A chill went through Ellie’s bones. “My gracious.”
What would Lady Davenport do if she learned of my double deception?
“I wish I could break through that mistrust, but Lord Davenport won’t let me near him,” she told Poultney. “What do I do?”

“Hmmm,” he said, his bushy brows flexing. “My advice is to look like Cleopatra, speak like Shakespeare, be kind as Desdemona and, most important, ignore him completely.”

Ellie caught her sisters’ eyes on her. “That ought to be easy,” Claire said with a smile. “As for you, Lord Bigalow, it’s time to remove yourself from our bed.”

• • •

Ellie decided to follow Poultney’s instructions to the letter and she rallied her sisters to the cause. For dinner they selected a most Cleopatra-like dress — a shear, white muslin embroidered with golden hieroglyphs. For Ellie’s shoulders, Claire suggested a light shawl of Egyptian cotton, patterned in sky blue, gold, rose, and brown. Lastly, they adorned her hair with a rose-colored ribbon affixed by a brooch of turquoise and pearls.

Peggity poked her head into the hallway and called tiny Josette, the lady’s maid, to button their creation.

Like a honeybee at a lilac, Josette darted this way and that, constructing the outfit. At the end of fifteen minutes, Ellie stood before the mirror, a princess in everything but title.

Claire smiled with delight. “You are stunning.”

“Lord Davenport will never be able to resist you now,” added Peggity.

Ellie turned toward her audience. “And now, the pièce de résistance.” At the stately pace of a curtain rising she brought the glasses to her face.

“Oh dear,” Claire said.

“Why ‘Oh dear’?” asked Ellie.

Peggity shook her head. “It’s really unfortunate. They’re awful.”

Josette’s little shoulders slumped in defeat.

Ellie sought her refection. All the beauty of her gown and jewels drained away with the thick tortoise shell glasses on. “I look like an insect.”

“Mademoiselle, why do you wear these terrible spectacles?” the French maid scolded. “You are so lovely. You go blind just a little for the gentleman,
oui
? Let your sisters be your eyes.”

Ellie dropped into a nearby chair. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Josette.”

“But mademoiselle, this is too much.”

Claire went to Ellie and patted her shoulder. “Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. Ellie has hidden charms that can overcome any old pair of eyeglasses.”

“Me, I am not so sure,” Josette said.

Peggity ushered the little woman from the room. “Thank you for your help. Ellie will do just fine tonight.”

Josette’s mournful face disappeared as Peggity slowly closed the door on her. “Still, it is a pity … ” the maid said just before the latch clicked.

Ellie stared into the mirror. “She’s right, you know. How can I attract an earl with a face only a fly could adore?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Claire coaxed. “Talk about horses. Lord Davenport loves horses.”

“That’s true,” Ellie said, feeling more hopeful. “I’ll ask him how Manifesto’s training is going.”

The girls giggled.

• • •

In the blue parlor after lunch Algie gave Ellie her chance to speak like Shakespeare. “To rain or not to rain: that is the question,” he said, staring out the window at the graying sky.

Ellie thought for a moment. “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the stings and airflows of outrageous storm churn, or to take arms against a sea of puddles.”

“Ha, clever girl,” Poultney barked.

A low chuckle came from the whist table where Hugh and his mother played the Pitt twins. Ellie wondered if he laughed out of amusement or cynicism. Either way, she wouldn’t allow herself to look at him.

“Wasn’t it Macbeth’s witches who said, ‘Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn, and cauldron bubble?’” said Chase, resting his hand on Lady Davenport’s shoulder as he stood behind her.

Their hostess stiffened. “Wicked boy, can’t you think of something nice to recite?”

“Nary a phrase comes to mind.” Chase cocked his head to one side. “But I have a pleasant idea — why don’t we plan tomorrow’s dinner party?”

“I would rather do something amusing,” Lady Davenport replied.

Chase folded his arms. “Are we growing pettish, my lady?”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” She tossed her cards on the table, rose from her chair, and stalked the room. “I’m tired, and I’m sick to death of … the whole business.”

“Would you like to take a stroll to the library with me?” Chase’s voice went taught. “Perhaps I could make you feel less ‘sick.’” Ellie lowered
Guy Mannering
to her lap. There was a hint of threat in Chase’s voice.

“I think not,” said Lady Davenport, punching a throw pillow into the corner of a couch and slumping into it. An uncomfortable silence dampened the room.

“Shall I read your palm?” Claire asked, breaking the tension. She took a seat next to Lady Davenport on the sofa.

“I’m assuming you mean tell my future?” their hostess replied. “My future has come and gone.”

Claire touched the older woman’s shoulder. “That’s not so. You’ve more life left in you than most of us have lived.”

“You have a point, dear, but the church could condemn you for wizardry.”

Hugh went to his mother’s side, deliberately blocking Chase’s view of her. “Oh, go ahead. We’ll keep Lady Claire’s parlor trick out of the courts.”

The older woman’s face lit up when her son spoke. “All right, my darling, if you’ll find it amusing.”

In a flurry of excited chatter, the company moved in to watch the reading — except Chase, who’d been forced to the periphery by Hugh’s imposing shoulders.

Claire took Lady Davenport’s hands into her own and flipped them palms up. “Which do you write with?”

“The right, of course; I wouldn’t be caught dead using my left.”

“Was your left hand tied behind your back until you learned to use the right?” asked Claire.

The older woman yanked her hands away. “That is no business of yours. Tell my fortune from my right hand or let’s drop this whole thing.”

“It’s all right,” Claire soothed. “I can tell a great deal from either palm.” Unperturbed, she gathered Lady Davenport’s hands back into her own and examined them closely.

“The first line is the heart line — at the top of the palm, closest to your fingers. Yours is a bit faint at first, but you see how it grows deeper and deeper. The heart line shows your loyalty and commitment to the relationships in your life. You may have been hesitant before, but your heart is strong now.”

“Quite so,” her ladyship agreed.

“The next line is your head. It is thick and short, indicating a practical and physical perception of the world.”

“Well, that’s a true statement. I certainly am a realist when it comes to the world of men.” She looked hard at Chase.

“What else does she show there?” Chase asked, bending over Claire’s shoulder. “A future filled with love and adventure or an ugly old age?”